


Lost in the Dark

by AlyssHarte



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/F, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:16:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlyssHarte/pseuds/AlyssHarte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Irene's been trying to lie low ever since escaping execution, but when a deal with an old ally of hers forces her to work with the unsuspecting Molly Hooper, she finds that with some people she can't always rely on her compelling nature to get what she wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains several OCs, though their sole purpose is to allow for the plot I wanted.  
> The title is taken from the song "Little Girl" by Danger Mouse & Sparklehorse.
> 
> Thanks to therealkatethemaid and bijane at tumblr for all the encouragement.

The call came three months after it had been expected.

Muffled by the pocket it was cradled in, the buzzing cell phone went unnoticed by its owner as the caller’s impatience forced him to try again several times. He couldn’t have known that the man he was attempting to contact was entirely absorbed in watching the spectacle occurring in his club that night.

Expensive drinks and business conversations lay abandoned as the club’s other patrons found their attention likewise commanded by the woman onstage. Her voice surrounded and ensnared each person individually, while the lights reflecting off her shimmery silver dress gave them an excuse to trace their eyes over her lithe body.

They were drunk on her.

As the song number hit its crescendo and her feet danced circles across the platform, Eva Norton felt her confidence swell. Being in control of a room, trailed by spotlights—this was her element. The club had, of course, seen many other performers and benefactresses in its many years, but there had never been anyone quite like Eva.

Applause nearly shattered her eardrums as the lights finally dimmed to black. Panting lightly, she bowed her head in response to the whistles and catcalls that would have embarrassed the illustrious men making them if they had been sober enough to realize it. Eva couldn’t suppress a mischievous grin as she sauntered down the stage’s steps and onto the main floor.

A hand tugged on her wrist to draw her into a circle of admirers. Compliments blurred together, and _she_ was drunk on a rare moment of ease.

“Eva!”

The sharp cry stood out amongst the warm words of everyone else, and her breath caught. She despised herself for succumbing to the paranoia that always threatened to intrude on her safe, if slightly boring, life. Tonight was supposed to be like any other.

“Didn’t you hear me?” The voice spoke again, this time from behind her. She quickly spun around to see her employer and co-owner of the club, Max, staring at her with urgent eyes.

“Has something happened?” She didn’t dare ask if _it_ had happened, clinging to the idea that she wouldn’t have to face it if it wasn’t spoken of.

Max pulled her away from the crowd. “Yeah, but I don’t know much about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Some man just called me and said it’s extremely important that he speaks with you tonight.”

“And?”

“Like I said, that’s all I know. Could be a family emergency.”

While that explained why Max appeared so shaken, it increased Eva’s fears. It was highly unlikely that the motive behind the mysterious call was a family emergency, since she had no family to speak of.

“Did this man ask that I call him back?” She asked.

“No,” Max hesitated. “He’ll be here in a few minutes. You can use the private room upstairs, and I’ll show him in when he arrives.”

Eva could do nothing but agree as Max hurried off to cater to his patrons, leaving her to wander to the main staircase. She gripped the banister a bit tighter than was necessary, glancing behind her as she climbed. An uneasy sensation began to form in her stomach.

It was all so terribly inconvenient.

She usually kept this paranoia that had persisted for months now at bay. It was easy, really. Her natural confidence made it a simple matter to push such trifles aside, though it was a discipline that always failed when she was fatigued. She found herself in this unfortunate position that night, eyes stinging with the toll of a long day of performing.

Eva selected a bottle from her personal wine storage in the private dining room, swishing the liquid over her tongue and savoring the pleasant tingles.

She’d been so _careful_. It was nearly impossible to avoid misbehaving, but she had done it. Life was more tedious than ever, yes, but it had never been so deliciously glamorous. When the club and her adjoining, luxurious flat weren’t enough, she often resorted to persuading herself out of boredom with drinks, expensive dresses, and walks throughout Manhattan. She deeply loved the city, in all its grandeur and filth. It suited her personality, and the only real problem rested in her being forced to give up the life she’d so enjoyed in London.

Ten minutes dragged by before a stocky, dark-haired man entered the room. Relief filled her as she realized she didn’t recognize his face, though there was something that flickered across his plain features that kept her from speaking first.

“Good evening, miss… Norton, is it?” He addressed her, a quick smirk directed at her flashy attire. He himself was dressed in a sober black suit, not unlike most of the men who frequented the venue. She also noted that his accent matched her own.

Eva forced a smile. “Please, sit down.” She waited until the strange man was seated across from her at the table before asking his name.

“In this situation,” he said. “I would consider myself a very good friend of yours.”

She covered her startled expression by turning to reach for a second glass and pouring the man some of the wine. Though he accepted it from her, he placed it back on the table without a sip. She decided to ignore this.

“May I ask what was so ‘extremely important’?” she sighed.

“I’ll let the boss speak for himself on that one.” He pulled a sleek cell phone out of his inside jacket pocket and slid it across the table to her. She raised a sharp eyebrow at it, not at all amused by the way this man was trying to dominate their meeting. His smirk returned at her obvious annoyance. “Protocol. This phone can’t be traced; yours could.”

“I really don’t—“

“I’ll leave you to your privacy.” He stood without another word and strolled out of the room, leaving his untouched wineglass behind.

Eva was entirely lost, but her curiosity prevented her from leaving the room and tossing the phone at its owner on the way out. The number that the man had already typed out burned her tired eyes as she looked at it. She pursed her lips before taking a hearty swig of her drink and pressing “talk.”

The phone rang into her ear for a few moments until a faint beep signaled the other person’s presence.

“Hello, Irene.”

A violent tremor rocked her torso. Forget the fact that someone was aware of her true name and identity, it was—

“Sebastian Moran,” She whispered.

“You sound surprised to hear from me.”

Indeed she was. While Sebastian Moran’s rough voice was one of the last she’d expected to hear, it was also that which she’d been dreading for months. She’d hardly been free from Karachi for three days before Sebastian and Jim Moriarty had re-captured her. The instructions they had left her with had been vague, never enough to warrant a belief that they would ever truly need to contact her again. Even so, her worries persisted after Moriarty’s death, the news of which had reached her by Kate.

Irene’s hands began to lightly shake as her mind scoured itself for a reason behind this call.

“Well,” she tried. “It’s been a few months, and I’ve heard nothing from you. After Jim died, I didn’t expect you to require my help.”

“Our operations are still quite active,” he said after a pause.

“Yes; boys will be boys.”

Sebastian chuckled at her sigh. “Don’t be so morose about it. That is why I’m speaking with you, though. You have something I can use.”

“All right, but let’s make it quick, shall we? It’s been a long night.”

“Oh no,” he began to laugh in such a way that deeply disturbed Irene. “You won’t get off the hook that easily. You’re coming back.”

“To England?” She blanched.

“Irene, your options are limited. If you refuse to help me you’ll be breaking the original agreement you had with Moriarty. He only sent you to America with that excuse of a job in exchange for any information you could offer him. If not for his generosity, you’d have been captured again and most likely killed.” Irene believed that Jim Moriarty’s “generosity” was more of a desire to play more games, but she wasn’t going to tell Sebastian that. Her pathetic agreement with the Consulting Criminal was, unfortunately, the best opportunity she’d had at having a real life after fleeing the terrorist cell.

Sebastian’s voice turned darker, more guttural. “Do not think that I won’t kill you if you break your word to him.”

Irene swallowed. “Right.”

“Now, there’s a little situation at hand over here. Your involvement would be of assistance. You can either stay in New York and face the consequence I just described, or you can come here. If you help us and fail, I’ll still kill you. If you are surprisingly successful, you can go back to your club and I doubt I’ll ever need you again.”

Her head was spinning. Suddenly, she regretted all the wine she had consumed over the course of the evening. The faint buzz in her head was blocking any attempt to formulate a plan in which she could appear as if she were helping Sebastian without actually doing so. There was a certain amount of distance from crime that she desired after being rescued by Sherlock Holmes. In fact, her sneaking suspicion about the detective meant that she had more than just his memory to honor.

And yet… Even though she had always intended to be disingenuous in her communications with the two men, she couldn’t possibly ignore such a summons without losing all she’d worked to rebuild in New York. Either that or dying.

“I think,” she said. “I’d like to know the nature of this situation before I accept.”

“Not a chance. Even without this call being traced or bugged, this matter must be dealt with in person.”

“Well, it would appear that I have no choice.”

“Good.” Poison laced his voice and Irene tried not to wince. “Arthur should be waiting for you now. I want you to give this phone back to him and pack lightly. You can pick up the rest of your old clothes when you arrive, as we’re running on short notice. Once you’ve done that, go with Arthur to the airport.”

“I assume you already have tickets, then?” It was too much to hope for that such a thing as plane tickets would delay her journey.

“Private plane. Wouldn’t want anyone to recognize our little siren as Irene Adler.” He chuckled again. “I’ll see you shortly.”

 With a sharp click, the line went silent and Irene was left to stare at a spot on the table. _Well, you were craving excitement and danger._

As she exited the room she shoved the phone into Arthur’s hands before storming down the hall to her flat to pack.


	2. Chapter 2

“We’ll be landing in a few minutes.” Arthur announced, closing the laptop on which he’d been furiously working for the past seven hours.

Irene exhaled. The flight had seemed to span a much greater time than those seven hours, as she’d been kept awake by that infernal typing. It was nearly eleven in the morning in London, and blinding sunlight burned red through her eyelids each time she tried to doze off for a moment. It was no use.

She lamented that she hadn’t had enough space to fit her entire wine stock into her suitcase.

As the plane dove and the fog gradually thinned, the view of the city below gave her a fleeting thrill. Her sleepy conscious seemed to recognize it for the home it was, though she wished she were returning under different circumstances. There would be no clients, no parties, only—only what?

“Will he meet us at the airport?” Irene inquired, wishing to speak with Sebastian as soon as possible. She hoped that his words would give her an idea of what was to happen to her. Even by asking such a thing, she felt disgusted. Irene Adler was not used to being held on a leash. It was, quite literally, the other way around.

“No. We’re taking a cab to meet him.”

“Where are we meeting him?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

She decided against pressing the issue. The man’s reticence was irritating, but she sensed that he was also on a leash in some way, and that the information she desired probably wasn’t known to him, either.

The cab ride wasn’t a long one, though its twisting turns took them deep into one of the nastier parts of the city. As they stepped out of the cab and onto the pavement, Irene felt that they looked entirely out of place. Grime seemed to cling to the clothes she had changed into.

She felt a vague sense of relief on realizing that she had nothing to fear in the dark alleyway they had walked a block to, as it was one of the most dangerous men in the world she was about to have a chat with. In comparison, any other threat was laughable.

Arthur gestured to the building on their left. “In here.”

The building’s vestibule was crumbling and dark enough, but she realized it was a mostly abandoned warehouse as she was led farther in. Just as she was squinting to make out the murky shapes, a light switch was flipped and fluorescents illuminated the spacious room.

"Adler.”

“Moran.”

He regarded her coolly, his piercing eyes glinting under a flip of light, rumpled hair. Many had been fooled by the deceptively normal appearance of Jim, but to an even slightly trained eye there could be no mistaking the danger in Sebastian Moran.

A cigarette protruded from between two of his calloused fingers, sending spirals of smoke up to the shabby ceiling. He tilted his head.

“Arthur, wait outside.”

Arthur strolled out into the daylight, leaving Irene to take a seat across from Sebastian at a small table. Its placement in the center of the large room gave her the feeling of being stranded on an island with the sniper.

“Well, who’s the pet?”

“An ally.”

“But really a businessman,” she remarked, thinking of his work during the flight. It made sense that one of Jim’s spies would have passed into Sebastian’s control.

“Yes, he’s been of some help to me in the past few months.”

“You mean that you’ve inherited him.”

Something sinister passed over his face, and she knew she had come close to dangerous waters.

“He works for me. That’s it.”

“All right. Now, am I going to find out the reason behind all of this?”

“Terribly sorry to have dragged you from that posh club of yours,” he retorted, tossing down his cigarette stub and reaching into the pack lying on the table for a fresh one.

“It would seem,” he began, cigarette bobbing in his mouth as he lit it. “That I actually need your help.”

“Hmm. Must be so difficult to admit that.”

“You could relate,” he sneered at her. “Don’t try to make jokes out of it; you’re not the one in charge here.”

The statement would have been infinitely more amusing to Irene had she been aware that that same warehouse had often been used for similar meetings between Jim and those he needed to threaten or persuade in person. Sebastian needed to hold his own, though his command of the place was an attempt to channel Jim that he would neither acknowledge nor admit to himself.

She could, however, see the conflict in Sebastian’s face and felt uneasy about it.

“Fine. What’s happening, then?”

Eyes downcast in thought, he coughed before continuing. “Have you ever heard of a man named Nathan Stone?”

Her breath faltered. “Stone… Oh, for God’s sake, Moran.”

“I thought as much,” he said, bored. “Your affair with his sister and her vengeance against me don’t come into this. Nathan Stone is the son of one of the richest investors of the Bank of England.”

Irene leaned back in her metal chair. “Oh, then it’s money you’re after? That’s not as horrible as I had thought…”

“Not quite. Anyway, old dad’s about to retire and all of his wealth will be inherited by Nathan.”

“Sebastian,” she scolded. “Please do not tell me that you’ve brought me all the way here in order for me to seduce the poor man and steal his fortune for you.”

“I have enough money. Do try to shut up and listen, yeah?” He took another drag and glowered at her from underneath his hair. “When this man was in his twenties he got himself into a spot of trouble with a gang in Liverpool. He got out of it by doing ‘em a favor and using his family’s money to obtain weapons for them. S’pose he thought that would be the end of it, but word got out about his advantage, and… Well, we’re looking at the most powerful arms dealer in Britain a few years later.”

“And Jim worked with him.”

“He never touched the guns; that’s my job. Point is he was our main supplier. Nearly everything I have has passed under that man’s nose. Jim kept him on his toes just as he did with everyone else, and as long as he lived Stone would do anything we asked.”

She nodded. “I see why the situation has changed, then.”

“It’s still Jim’s organization, though. Still his plans. I can’t tell you everything, but the bottom line is that he left us with a few plans to carry out. I don’t exactly give a fuck what happens after they’re finished, but I’ll be damned if I don’t at least do that much.”

His hand clenched with every word, causing black flecks of ash to fall from the burning cigarette onto the table’s surface. Irene worked to keep a serene expression, lest she reveal the terror that was taking root inside her. She was not one to be easily frightened, but the knowledge that this demon-eyed man held her freedom in his hands was more than she was comfortable with.

The dominatrix shifted in her seat. “What sort of plans did he leave you with?”

“You don’t need to know all of them. What’s most important right now is that there’re a few enemies he wanted taken care of at certain times, and I can’t reach them all at once. I certainly don’t have time to deal with them while I’m tracking Holmes. The idea was for the bombs to be handed off to my men and leave it to them. It’s easier than for them to play sniper with dozens of people in concentrated areas. It would raise too many questions. But now…”

“This Stone man isn’t afraid of you like he was Jim Moriarty. He won’t cooperate.”

Sebastian grimaced at the ceiling. “Yeah, that does it. I need Nathan Stone’s cooperation for this to work. He’s discreet. The real problem is his inheritance, though. He can’t afford to be a secret criminal once he has real duties to attend to. Starting on the night of his inheritance, he’s leaving that behind.”

“Why not threaten him into doing as you say? You of all people could accomplish such a thing.”

“Don’t you think I’ve already tried that?” He growled. “Two weeks ago, I got into contact with him and got nothing. I went in with a mind to force him to make the order, but Stone is powerful. He has his own men who stopped me from even getting near. Another ambush would be my last resort.”

Irene licked her lips, desperately searching for alternative routes that would make her presence unnecessary. “Must you go through him to get your bombs? There must be other discreet dealers.”

“You don’t know this man. He’s connected the dealers of Europe together, and he commands them all. There’s no one I can go to who wouldn’t allow word to reach him, and then he would see to it that the bombs never reached their destinations. But he knows my face now, and that’s where you can work off that debt of yours.”

“Sebastian,” she groaned. “I’m not sure if—“

“Irene, need I remind you that I could snap your neck within seconds? You’ll do as I ask. Now, you are going to go to Nathan Stone, and you will earn his trust. You will place the order for me. I never got so far as telling him what I specifically needed, so your request shouldn’t be suspicious to him. With all luck, you should have it all worked out before his inheritance, I get my men to pick up the goods at our ports, and boom.”

The two sat in silence for a few moments after this crude statement, both attempting not to flare up into a show of dominance. Irene decided to risk pacifying her curiosity.

“While I’m fully aware of the, ah, repercussions that I would be submitted to if I don’t comply, there’s one thing I’m still unclear on.”

Smoke puffed from Sebastian’s mouth in a sigh. “And what could that be?”

“You don’t actually need me, do you?” Her words were more venomous than usual as she struggled to keep the fume’s taste out of her mouth. “I would imagine that you still have plenty of people under your charge, and any one of them would be just as well suited to being your emissary. I might be here to amuse you, but you’re not the sort of man to go to all this trouble for the sake of a game.”

“Am I?”

"No. That’s where you differ from Jim, I think.”

Sebastian’s stoic expression faltered for a fraction of a second at the name of his—his what? Partner? Irene had immediately perceived the two men’s bond on the night of her re-capture, though she had never contemplated the extent of it. She vaguely wondered if any other member of Moriarty’s organization would even bother to continue such a mission on his behalf if they weren’t being ushered on by Sebastian. Loyalty, she knew, revealed a great deal of things.

The tendrils of smoke from Sebastian’s last exhale disappeared. “All right, then,” he agreed with a cough. “Clever enough. I brought you here for a specific reason, though I won’t say that being able to play the dominatrix isn’t entertaining.”

“Go on…” She bit back a swear.

“When Stone first refused to accept the order, I had some of my men look into his past, just to see if there was anything we could use. Luckily enough… there was one record that was extremely amusing.”

“What was it?”

A devious grin played onto Sebastian’s long face. “Nathan Stone was once a loyal client of one Irene Adler.”

“What?” she exclaimed, jerking forward in her chair. “I think I would remember it if the most powerful arms dealer in the country was tied to my bed.”

“Unlikely. He has many aliases and probably gave you one of them. Only the searches we did uncovered that.”

“But why does it matter?”

“It matters because you, Irene, have the advantage of blackmail. Perhaps not as good as the photos you had of her Highness, but it’s something. You’re just as much of a villain as I am. You know what to do.”

She quickly calmed her shaking hands, knowing that it was a dead end.

“Fine. How long do I have until his inheritance?”

“Little over a month. For now, just continue to lie low in the city. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, Sebastian stood and turned his back to her before leaving the building through a back door. She had no desire to remain in the dusty warehouse and returned to the entrance, where a bored Arthur was leaning against the graffiti covered wall.

“Charmer, isn’t he?” he said.

“I suppose so.”

“Boss told me to get you a cab to a hotel now.”

“If it’s all right,” she said. “I’m going to make a quick call.”

Arthur shrugged his shoulders, so she walked deeper into the alleyway before dialing an old, but familiar number.

The voice on the other end was silent at first, consumed by shock and concern. “Irene? Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Kate.” she sighed, wishing that she had had more opportunities back in New York to speak with her friend and former maid. The occasional phone call between the two women offered little comfort or information, as Irene’s fear of being bugged was always prevalent. The last interesting piece of news that Kate had provided her with had resulted more in confusion than the expected grief. Sherlock Holmes’s death was a tragedy to everyone else, but to her it was a mystery.

Sherlock had experienced the aftermath of her own “death,” and he was aware of the tactics she’d employed to make it so convincing. She was also painfully conscious of the fact that his level of intelligence slightly surpassed her own, leaving her with the notion that there was no plausible way for him to be unable to do something she had done.

Irene adjusted the phone’s position in her hand. “Kate, I need a favor of you.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to find out the names of all the record keepers who work at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital,” she said, naming the nearest hospital, as well as the one her own “body” had been examined in.

“You do know that sounds a bit strange.”

“Yes, I know. I’m sorry I can’t tell you more. Will you do that for me, though?”

“Of course, Irene. I’ll call you back as soon as I have some names.”

“Thank you, Kate.” She paused. “If you’d like, we could see each other sometime.”

“Are you… Are you back?”

“For now.”

Irene returned to find Arthur waiting inside a stalled cab, impatiently waving her over.

“Choose a hotel.” He handed her an envelope of paper bills. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

Irene had crashed onto her hotel room’s bed the moment she’d seen it, not bothering to remove her clothes or boots. She’d slept for the rest of the day, though even that couldn’t entirely revitalize her shaken system.

After a scorching shower, Irene pulled a knee onto the windowsill, balancing in her wrapped towel and observing the city. Cool air lifted the curtains and raised goose bumps on her damp skin.

London had the unmistakable feeling of protection and comfort, no matter her reasons for being there. The dangerous notion of staying after this business with Moran was over was tempting, but she wasn’t willing to relinquish her freedom again.

But then, being restrained by the sniper for the rest of her life wasn’t a much better prospect than death.

Her ringing phone broke the reverie, and she slid her leg off the ledge to reach for it on the room’s desk. “Kate?”  
“Yes, it’s me. I got in touch with someone at Bart’s a few minutes ago. It took me a little while to get through.”

“Well? How many people must I sort through?”

Irene patiently waited through the white noise her phone was producing. “The thing is,” Kate hesitated. “I’ve only got one name from them. Their pathologist has the run of the lab and records for most part.”

“So, one pathologist?”

“Only one.”

Irene sighed in disappointment. While that significantly reduced the amount of work she would have to do, it narrowed her chance to almost nothing. Anxiety filled her stomach in irritating little bursts. “And? Who is it?”

Kate’s response brought a devilish grin to her lips. She’d heard that name once before. Many months ago, John Watson had uttered it in her presence while she was hiding out at Baker Street. If this person was any friend of John’s, surely the same went for Sherlock?

Irene ended the call and found herself light on her feet for the first time since arriving in London.

She had found her woman.


	3. Chapter 3

_Female._

_Twenty-three years old._

_1.65 m, 58.97 kg_

_Cause of death…_

Molly Hooper frowned at the form she was reluctantly filling out. There had been no error in her examination of the young woman’s body, but its very presence gave her a chill that was unwelcome in the already cold morgue.

Most of the woman’s professional clothing had been cut away in order to locate wounds or bruises, but none had been found. The traces of her last drink in her stomach, as well as the sallow color of her skin, had been more than enough for Molly to work out the cause of death within an hour. She’d only lingered over the body in thought, remembering what Sherlock had explained to her in the lab almost a month ago.

It wasn’t much. At least, not much more than she’d already known from hearing about James Moriarty’s trial in the news. Initially, hearing her former date’s name on BBC in the same sentence as “convicted” was disturbing. Being gay had been shocking enough, but a criminal mastermind?

Sherlock’s explanation had been as succinct and coherent as he could have managed under such stress. James (Jim?) Moriarty was going to be, if all went according to plan, dead. With his death, the majority of London’s curious murders were supposed to vanish as well. And they did, for the most part. Occasionally, a body would turn up with a murderer who DI Lestrade couldn’t find, and Molly would make a mental tally mark. Underneath their solid planning, something was wrong.

_Poison._

For all the tears and paperwork that were produced by a person becoming a corpse, it certainly didn’t take long to toss a white sheet over it and stow it away in a drawer like excess office supplies. Molly spared the poor girl one final glance before doing as much, and then hurriedly entered the information on her form into St. Bart’s computer system.

 She slipped out of her lab coat in the locker room, breathing a sigh of relief that her shift was finally over. The hospital had developed a stigma for her ever since that day, and eight-thirty was _not_ the time to be faced with that.

The humid air outside welcomed her into the night. She passed an occupied cab near the ambulance entrance before wandering down the sidewalk, her mind still with the dead girl back in the hospital. The toe of her boot nudged a crumbled piece of concrete along.

_There’s nothing I can do._

The walk home wasn’t the quickest route available, but Molly decided she would take the opportunity to wear herself out. Sleep would dull the anxiety.

Unfortunately, she never got farther than a meter.

“Molly Hooper.”

She froze, trying to identify a friend in the feminine voice. But no, a friend wouldn’t have included her surname. Turning around, she could just make out a slender figure leaning against the cab she had walked past.

She took a step or two backwards. “I’m sorry?”

“That is your name, isn’t it?” The woman pushed herself off the cab to stand straight. The plethora of streetlights behind her created a petite silhouette, though her face was still shrouded in darkness.

Molly nodded.

“Do you have a moment, Ms. Hooper?”

The thought of further human interaction, even with a living human, sent spasms of pain to Molly’s head. “Er,” she started. “I need to get home, actually. It’s a long walk.”

The woman tilted her head in the cab’s direction and opened the door with a click, fixing the pathologist with a playful grin. “I’ve gotten you a ride.”

“No,” Molly asserted, thinking of her duty. “I really need to be home right now.”

She turned to continue her solitary trek down the sidewalk when the woman called out again.

“I know he’s still alive.”

Molly nearly twisted her ankle as she spun to face the woman again, remembering just in time to shut her mouth which had fallen agape. “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“No? Well, in any case, I’m sure you don’t want to take any chances in such a situation. Come, dear. I won’t require too much of your time.”

Molly squinted, trying to discern her from the many people who passed through the hospital on a daily basis. As the effort failed, she began to wonder if any of Sherlock’s enemies took the form of such a creature. If they did, he hadn’t bothered to warn her about them.

“Listen,” the woman continued in a lofty voice. “There is no choice in this. I can either have you driven home or some place more public; whichever you’d prefer.” Her hand hadn’t moved from its grasp on the car door, poised like the open mouth of a beast that Molly was about to walk into.

Duty, she decided, was a very inconvenient thing.

“Good,” her new companion purred. “After you.”

Molly slid into the cab, settling herself in the seat on the far right. The snap of the opposite door announced the other woman’s presence beside her, as well as the sudden cloud of light and spicy perfume that permeated the air. Molly was suddenly conscious of the stench of medical disinfectant that clung to her simple pullover.

The car’s interior was temporarily illuminated as its driver turned his key in the ignition. Despite all attempts to keep to herself, Molly found her eyes involuntarily pulled towards the woman. It may have been the strong light that made such a dramatic effect, but Molly had not been prepared for the beautiful face that turned to align with her own. Her jaw was sharply set and angular, though the features themselves were delicate. The small mouth, however, was painted a bold red. The only jewelry she wore was a delicate silver necklace. A hint of wrinkles alluded to the woman’s age, though to Molly they added a sort of regality.

A questioning look met Molly’s gaze, and she realized she had been staring.

“Well; where to, Ms. Hooper?”

“Somewhere public.” She didn’t think she could bear for this intimidating woman to see the frilly pillows strewn about her living room, not to mention the cat.

The woman named an unfamiliar café before the car pulled away from the curb and into the London traffic, darkness engulfing the backseat once more. Molly’s eyes traced road signs and address numbers for the duration of the ride, determined to pretend as if she were in a different situation. Had it not been for the aroma still making its way to her nose, she might have succeeded.

It couldn’t have been more than three or four minutes before the car slid to a halt on the edge of a busy intersection. The woman tossed the cabbie a handful of paper bills before exiting. She held the door open again, though the gesture lost all politeness as her eyes distractedly darted about, surveying the streets. Molly stood beside her in front of the café, nervously tugging on her sleeves. Warm pools of light spilled from the windows onto the sidewalk, and the chatter from within penetrated the glass. Molly scanned the banner above the entrance.

“I’ve never been here before,” she remarked.

The woman shrugged in response. “I sometimes had my maid bring me pastries from here. It’s crowded, but we won’t be overheard.”

Molly had to jog in after the woman, as she’d been left dumbstruck for a moment. “You have a maid?”

 She was again left without a satisfactory answer and was instead led to a small table inside the café. The entire place was decorated with a crimson that made Molly feel as if she were drowning in the color. The customer population seemed to be primarily made up of ostentatious adults, laughing mindlessly over beverages and bite-sized food. She was on the verge of making her way to the counter for an order of the most comforting thing she could think of when her mysterious kidnapper disappeared to order without her.

Huffing, Molly slumped into one of the plush chairs at their table. Being treated like a loyal dog was no new experience to her, though she had been hoping to shed that part of herself after Sherlock had treated her as an equal, if only for a short time.

The woman reappeared out of nowhere, making Molly jolt in her seat. She handed her one of two steaming coffees before gracefully folding herself into the opposite chair. “I hope this will do.” She waved a set of sharp nails in the direction of the drinks. “It’s fairly mild.”

Molly took a careful sip, biting down on her tongue as what must have been pure boiling water splashed against the roof her mouth.

“It’s fine; I’m just a bit tired from working so late.”

“Yes, I know.”

She had to recover from watching the woman take several sips of coffee without wincing before that registered with her. “Hang on, why do you know my shift schedules?”

“Is that really what you’d like to discuss tonight? I imagine you would much rather return to your home soon. Rest those pretty eyes.”

“Right.” She found it difficult to form articulate sentences while being stared down by the person in front of her, especially since the ceiling lights were reflecting into and intensifying her gaze. Molly Hooper had not mastered the technique of reacting to interest, as the only two people to have displayed it in recent times either wanted her assistance in faking his death, or was pretending to be her boyfriend.

She pressed her mouth to the cup’s edge to check if the coffee had cooled before trying to verbalize her thoughts again. “What did you need to speak to me about? You don’t work at the hospital.”

“No. My profession is rather the opposite…”

“What?”

“I need your help, Ms. Hooper.” Regret flickered across the woman’s face as she admitted this.

Molly’s back straightened, suspicion rising in her heart. “Why would _you_ possibly need my help? I don’t even know your name.”

There was a brief pause. “My name is Irene Adler.”

Aware that her mouth had fallen open yet again, Molly’s eyes searched her companion’s face. “That’s not possible.”

“Of course it is, dear. I’m sitting across from you.”

“No. I mean—No, I examined your body.”

Irene raised a sharp eyebrow. “Should I feel flattered?”

“That’s not what I meant! I did your post-mortem. Sherlock identified the body as being yours.”

“He did,” Irene agreed with a smile. “However, as our noble detective has recently proved, DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep.”

The blood seemed to drain from Molly. Her hands felt as if they were made of ice against the still scorching cup of coffee. She took another sip to warm herself. “You can’t possibly believe that.”

“I do, though. I believe that because he was clever. He was clever enough to beat me.”

“I don’t think I understand your… relationship with him.”

Irene let out a hollow laugh. “You don’t need to. The point is that I had the opportunity to see how his mind worked, how he unraveled things in seconds. I don’t believe for a moment that he truly professed himself a ‘fake’ and leapt off of your hospital’s roof. At least, not after he’d already been temporarily fooled by my faked death. Now, as the head pathologist at Bart’s and a woman on friendly terms with Mr. Holmes, doesn’t it seem plausible that you assisted him?”

Molly had learned from Sherlock that eye contact was essential to a successful lie, but she found that she was having trouble meeting the eyes that seemed to rest, unblinking, on herself. “Yes, but not probable.”

“No, not probable. Definite. You’ve given yourself away just by coming with me tonight.”

“How!?”

Irene brought her face closer over the table. “Had you continued to walk home, I would have left you alone. However, you agreed to come only after I alluded to Sherlock. You wouldn’t have done that if there hadn’t been a guilt factor; something to protect. Am I correct, Ms. Hooper?”

“I-I don’t think I should stay here any longer. I’m going to get another cab home.” Molly had begun to rise from her seat, but Irene stopped her with a hand hastily placed over top of her own.

“Oh, don’t think I’m on _their_ side. There’s nothing for me to gain from crime at the moment. This is purely freelance work.”

Molly hastily withdrew her hand, flushing. “You haven’t even told me what it is that you want. You didn’t come here to confirm something you already guessed.”

Irene tilted her head at the younger woman, lips forming into a mischievous smile. “Oh, smart girl. I need to know where Sherlock Holmes is hiding.”

“No! Absolutely not!”

“He’s really not dead, then?”

The table rocked on its support as Molly leapt up, causing a splash of dark liquid to pool and run dripping off the edge. “Please leave me alone.”

Irene jumped up after her, avoiding the spilled coffee that would stain her black dress. “Money isn’t a problem, you know,” she called after Molly, who was having difficulty making a clandestine escape in the small crowd of people.

On hearing this, Molly spun around and gave Irene time to catch up with her. “Do you honestly think you can buy my betrayal?” she cried indignantly.

Irene regarded her with faint amusement. “All right, then. I can see that I’ll be getting nowhere tonight.”

“Tonight? What—“

“Hush.” She placed a hand on the small of Molly’s back, sending another wave of blood to her face. “Don’t look so scandalized; no one here knows you.”

“ _You_ don’t know me.”

“Hmm. Come along, Ms. Hooper. I’ll walk you out.”

Back outside, the humidity seemed to have been drained from the air. Molly drew her pullover tighter against her torso, feeling as cold as if she were back in the morgue. She let Irene hail her cab, not wanting to remove her arms from around her body.

Behind her, Irene furtively unclasped the light chain from around her own neck and dropped it into the palm of her hand. She waited until the cab had almost come to a stop at the curb before advancing towards Molly and brandishing a small, folded slip of paper. “My hotel’s address; just in case you’d like another word.”

Molly watched Irene’s outstretched hand offer the paper, but she didn’t move to accept it. Smirking, Irene leaned closer and pushed it into the front left pocket of Molly’s pants.

“Sweet dreams.”

Somewhere between the café and her flat, Molly resolved not to tell Sherlock about the strange encounter. The new phone number that she had been told to save was one that she often wanted to call, though she really only did so once a week to give Sherlock her report. He was busy. Besides, Irene Adler hadn’t directly threatened her, and Molly felt that she could at least withstand the woman’s offers of money.

She pushed her flat door open to reveal a cat eagerly awaiting his owner’s return. She bent to scratch his ears, glad that at least one thing hadn’t changed.

“Hey, Toby.”

Molly was in the process of changing out of her clothes in the bedroom when she felt a hard object pressing into her hip. Drawing out the folded piece of paper, she told herself to toss it into the bin without a glance at the same time as she began to unfold it. A silver chain fell from inside the paper onto her carpet, making a muted thud.

She glanced back at the paper. Underneath the address written in sharp cursive was a note:

_Tomorrow. Ask for Eva Norton._

Molly’s eyes darted back and forth between the note and the necklace lying on the floor.

“Shit.”


	4. Chapter 4

A strange bed, pillows that smelled of an unfamiliarly strong detergent. Her nose wrinkled as Irene slowly became conscious and remembered that she was in the hotel and not her flat back in Manhattan. She stretched her bare legs out under the sheets, pressing the balls of her feet against the lip of the bed’s wooden frame and exhaling. The muscles relaxed.

Disappointment did not suit her well. She had been positive that it would be an easy job. The girl just looked so easy to control—so deliciously vulnerable. Another exhale of soft breath escaped Irene’s lips. There should have been gratitude to meet her charm, compliance to meet her offers of payment. Instead, the girl had merely blushed and scurried away as quickly as possible. Irene hadn’t expected anyone to be as protective of Sherlock Holmes as John Watson, but it appeared that the young pathologist was just as loyal to him.

 _Then again_ , Irene mused _. I’m helping him too._

She couldn’t foresee herself escaping Sebastian’s plans without her blood going cold, but from the moment Sebastian had dismissed her from the warehouse a beautiful plan of her own had unfurled in her mind. She would do the assassin’s bidding, but there was nothing stopping her from simultaneously helping Sherlock by informing him of his number one enemy’s whereabouts. Nothing, that is, besides Molly Hooper.

Her pale fingers slipped out from under the sheets to seek her phone on the bedside table. She mentally scolded herself for sleeping in so late as the phone flashed the time at her.

 _No new messages._ Relief trickled through her body as she sat up against the headboard and selected the first person in her speed dial. Later, a hastily prepared shower loosened the last of the tension from her shoulders, and she felt significantly better as she slipped into her green peignoir. She had half a mind to climb back into bed, but the room’s phone began to ring loudly.

 “Hello, Ms. Norton?” a voice chirped. “This is the front desk.”

“Yes?”

“There’s someone here to see you; a Molly Hooper?”

“I see,” she said, glowering at the clock once more. “Send her up, would you?”

Adjusting the sleeves of the sheer garment that curtained her otherwise bare figure, Irene watched in the mirror as its neckline shifted down to reveal another centimeter of smooth skin.

_That’ll do._

On opening the door in response to the short succession of knocks, Irene waited for Molly’s mouth to fall agape as she took in the transparent peignoir. A fresh tinge of pink blossomed over her cheeks and she hastily averted her eyes.

Irene tipped her head to the side. “I would apologize for my attire, but I rather thought you would arrive later, Ms. Hooper. You didn’t seem very keen on seeing me again.” She turned her back to the other woman before disappearing into the bathroom.

Closing the door behind her with a soft click, Molly passed her gaze over the elaborately carved furniture and chandelier in the hotel room. “Well,” she called towards the bathroom door. “I didn’t think you’d be so relentless if it wasn’t something important.”

“Oh, I don’t know; I’m notoriously relentless in most matters.” Irene’s lofty voice carried to the main room.

Molly wasn’t sure where she could comfortably sit while Irene changed—or rather, put on—clothes, but before she had completely sunk into the settee against the far wall, Irene sauntered out of the bathroom in a thin, fitted dress. The intricately patterned fabric hugged her waist and hips, halting at the mid thigh. “So,” she breathed, advancing towards Molly and tossing her loose hair over her shoulder. “Have you changed your mind?”

“No,” Molly finally managed. She removed the silver necklace from her jacket pocket and cupped it in her hand. “But you don’t look surprised that I’m here.”

“Well, that’s simple enough. You’re too kind a person to neglect to return such an expensive item. I don’t need to know you to know that.” Her hands closed around Molly’s, pressing the woman’s fingers so that they curled tight over the necklace. “Keep it, if you like. It’s served its purpose.”

Hand trembling softly, Molly withdrew her arm and slipped the chain back into her pocket. Her lips briefly opened and closed several times, as if she were preparing herself to assert something. She willed her jaw to obey her. “Why am I here, Ms. Adler?”

“Irene, please.”

“Oh, okay. Why are you staying here under the name Eva Norton, then? Is that your real name?” Her brow puckered in disappointment.

“No, dear.” Irene reassured her. “I’ve entrusted you with my real name.”

“You’re hiding from someone.”

“I’m hiding from a lot of people, Ms. Hooper.” The grin faltered as Irene recalled the image of a dimly lit building at night, swarming with hooded terrorists and filthy hands pressing her to the ground.

Molly watched the transition very carefully, attempting to decipher the source of the woman’s expression. She was far from trusting this new contact, though she felt she was bound to determine if the person demanding Sherlock’s location was a criminal. “Have you done something?” she asked.

Irene settled onto the edge of her bed, sliding a pair of dark heels onto her small feet and rotating an ankle to observe the effect. “I’m sure many of my past actions deserve that question, but it’s not the reason I’m hiding. There are certain people who would be…surprised to see me walking the streets of London. It’s more an act of kindness than deception to conceal myself from them.” She fixed Molly with a bold look. “I’m supposed to be dead.”

“What, you faked your death?”

“Again, actually. It was necessary at the time. At present, I have business to attend to in England, so I assumed an alias.”

Molly’s confusion had reached its limit for the afternoon. “Irene, why are you telling me all this? We’re barely acquaintances.”

“I’m aware.” A lengthy pause followed the statement in which Irene found herself unable to look away from the warm brown eyes that watched her like a human watches a coiled snake. “Regardless, someone must be my confidant.  Now, what was your original question? Why are you here?”

“Well, yeah. I already told you I wouldn’t betray his confidence.”

“No one said it would be betrayal, dear. Anyway, come on.” She had leapt up from the bed on those precarious heels and slid her arm under the strap of a small purse hanging on the coat rack by the door.

“Wait!” Molly shrieked, darting after her into the hallway where several other well dressed guests milled about with bored expressions. “Where are we going?”

“To see a friend.”

 

Irene may not have offered any further explanation about the short trip, but Molly sensed that she was entering Irene’s territory as she watched the tall white pillars rise outside the car window. The district was famous enough for her to be fairly intimidated by its opulence and the prominent residents its houses shrouded. Fixing her features into a placid mask, she followed Irene up the steps of number forty-four.

She waited as Irene pressed a red fingertip to the buzzer and darted forward to embrace the person who opened the door seconds later. Molly craned her neck to see over Irene’s shoulder and, in the shadow of the stoop’s roof, discerned a slightly younger woman with long ginger hair. She wrapped a thin arm around Irene’s waist and exchanged airy kisses with her. “Come in!” she exclaimed, seeing Irene’s worried expression.

The two women were ushered inside, and Molly might have wondered more about who exactly Irene was so intent on hiding from if she hadn’t been stunned by the house’s interior. She lagged behind in the tidy vestibule as Irene relaxed her shoulders and spun a loose circle. Molly chuckled.

“Go ahead into the sitting room; I’ll put on the kettle,” the ginger-haired woman called from the kitchen. Molly followed the sharp clicks of stilettos under an archway and into a large room, where Irene beckoned to her from a sofa. Molly hesitantly sat down and observed Irene looking about the room as if she were recalling some distant memory.

The new woman joined them within minutes, setting a tray of tea cups onto the center table. Irene accepted her cup with a genuine smile that the woman returned. “I missed this house, Kate. It seems it hasn’t fallen to the ground without me, though.”

“No,” Kate laughed. “You left me with enough money to keep two of these places in order.” She took a seat across from them and seemed to notice Molly for the first time. “In fact, _everything_ is still in order. Will you need your usual supplies?”

“Oh, no,” Irene said, suppressing a bark of laughter by taking a sip of tea. “She isn’t here for that sort of business. Kate, this is Dr. Molly Hooper. You know, the one you found for me.”

“Ah, I see,” Kate said at the same time that Molly gulped on her own drink and sputtered, “What does that mean?”

Ignoring this, Irene continued with the formality. “Ms. Hooper, this is Kate, my dear friend and maid. I’ve lent her a bit of money so she could prevent my lovely house from being overtaken while I was away, and she’s been enjoying it as her own home. I daresay I am in her debt.”

“Not too much,” Kate smirked.

The two residents of Belgravia shared a moment of merriment, and Molly was overcome with the sickening feeling that she was to always be left out of everything. Noticing her reticence, Irene turned back to Molly and placed a delicate hand on the back of her neck, even as she spoke to Kate. “I don’t have long, I’m afraid. Would you mind fetching that folder I asked you to dig up?”

“Oh! Yes, of course.” Kate leapt up and exited the room, her skirt swishing with the movement of her hurried legs.

Silence hung over the sitting room for several moments, neither woman breathing a sound as Irene’s fingers lightly trailed over the bump of skin and rounded bone beneath them. She rode out the shallow waves of Molly’s shiver, only retracting her hand when it was over. “My offer of payment for your information still holds true,” she began. “However, I know that it may take some time for you to accept it, if you ever do. Today’s purpose is simply to prove to you that I am not the evil villain you fear I am. All right?”

Molly assented with a nod. “So, how does being here prove that you’re…good?”

“Well, not _good._ Just not a villain.”

“I don’t see how you could prove that, Irene.”

“Well, I’ll start by explaining to you how I know Sherlock Holmes.”

As it turned out, this part of the conversation took over the hour and consumed the both of them. The first interruption came when Kate reentered the room with a weighty manila folder and set it on the table, and the second when she whisked away the tea tray before telling Irene she had an engagement and would return later in the evening. Molly listened in fascination as Irene detailed her involvement with the sabotaged flight and how her scandalous career had enabled her to do so. She rather felt that Irene’s tale was doing the opposite of confirming her innocence, though she also appreciated that the mysterious woman was choosing to be so honest with her. However, unknown to her, Irene had opted to omit the part about being captured by terrorists, or that she owed Sherlock her life. By the time Irene had reached the point where she had “decided” to leave Europe, a steady drizzle of rain had begun to patter against the gold framed windows.

“Where did you go?” Molly asked, still engrossed in the story that she felt was far more interesting than any she could have told.

“Well, I had lived in New Jersey until I was six, so New England seemed an adequate place to find myself in again. I had a connection, you could call it, that allowed me to find employment in a rather exclusive club in Manhattan. I moved into the flat above it, and I’ve been hiding there ever since. It’s quite a nice place, actually.” she sighed, looking around the familiar room once more.

“What sort of, er, employment did you find?” Molly asked. Her warm eyes had widened in surprise as Irene had described to her the various services she had provided for her “clients,” as she liked to call them. Molly found herself a little flustered to be sitting so close to the sort of person she had only ever heard rumors about, and she wondered if such a career could be so easily transferred in Manhattan.

Irene watched as this thought process passed through Molly’s mind. The smile had returned, and had anyone but the entranced Molly Hooper been present, it might have been described as wolfish.

“I co-own the club,” Irene finally replied. “It’s successful enough that even a portion of the profits do a ruined woman well.”

 “Do you manage bills or something, then?”

“Oh, from time to time. My true talent lies in stage performances.”

She waited for the inevitable flush that would make its way up her companion’s neck as her comment was absorbed and then compared to her former, more controversial line of work. The younger woman’s apparent innocence was irresistible to toy with.

“Oh…”

Irene’s smile extended. “It turns out that I’m a rather brilliant singer. But what of you, dear? What talents do you possess?”

Molly lowered her head, still recovering from the performance line. “Well, I make post- mortem examinations.” She immediately looked as if she despised herself for uttering such a silly thing to so intimidating a person and hastily plastered on her own smile.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Someone told me not to make that joke before.”

Irene didn’t appear to be fazed by the peculiar statement, choosing to lift the manila folder from the table and hand it to Molly. “My entire career,” she said as Molly opened it to reveal several slimmer binders. Glossy photos whooshed past as she flipped through the pages. “That record is the physical copy, but it contains everything: my clients, payment information, travel records… It’s all there.”

“Isn’t this confidential?”

“It was until now. I choose to show it to you, just as I choose to show you the home I favored most. While you’re here, you’re welcome to search it. I mean to be open with you, Ms. Hooper.”

Molly paused in her examination of the second binder, which was replete with the names of previous clientele. “Please don’t make it sound like you care about me. You don’t. You just want me to become a friend so I’ll give up what I know. Besides, why in the world would I want to look through your house?”

Irene shrugged. “Trust?”

“But I don’t trust you.”

She continued to leaf through the binder, but she suddenly froze, disturbed.

“What?” Irene demanded.

“There’s, um, one of the head surgeons at Bart’s in here.”

Irene quickly snatched the pile of binders back and tossed them onto the table. “Right. Come on, dear,” she said, taking Molly’s hand and pulling her onto her feet.

For the first time, Molly found her curiosity overwhelming her apprehension for Irene and she allowed herself to be led up a set of stairs and down a short hallway, where an ebony door stood before them. Pushing it open, Irene went ahead and closed it behind Molly. Her old bedroom lent her a sense of calmness, though she knew she couldn’t stay long. She was pleased to see that Kate hadn’t changed much of the décor, though she had moved into the room.

A quick tour of the space did nothing to lessen Molly’s intrigue, as the sight of the massive bed caused her mind to all of a sudden be plagued by images of Irene guiding others to this room; pressing them into the plush bed covers, making them scream. She shook her head to clear the thought.

As Molly wandered near the window, tracing her fingers over the jewelry draped over the vanity mirror, Irene’s gaze followed her. She was presenting her with quite a challenge, and only in the deepest recesses of her mind did Irene warn herself not to take it too far.

She fell back onto the bed’s duvet, rich hair fanned across the silky pillows. With a raised arm she gestured for Molly to fill the vacancy beside her, but the other woman shook her head again and settled into a hard-backed chair next to the fireplace.

“Suit yourself,” Irene hummed, taking out her phone and turning it on to check her messages once more. Other than a confirmation text she had received earlier in the afternoon from Kate, there was still nothing. She regretted being so cut off from society as a “dead” woman, though she wasn’t going to complain about not hearing from Sebastian. Suddenly, her connection died and she held it the air, to no avail. “Damn this thing.”

Molly grimaced in mock sympathy.

“My old phone was taken,” Irene explained.

“Who took it?”

“A terrorist in Karachi. Now, why don’t you join me here? I can’t have a proper conversation with you if you’re all the way over there.”

“You don’t need to be right next to me for business talk.”

Irene pressed a hand into the covers in order to push herself onto her stomach, facing Molly. Her dress rode up her thighs a small bit as she did this. “You do for my sort of business.”

Seeming to remember all at once exactly where she was, Molly stood and made her way past the foot of the bed, embarrassment resuming. “I should go.”

Irene swung her legs off the bed to follow her, though at the last second she felt that old bite of a challenge urging her on and she blocked Molly’s exit of the room. “Relax, Ms. Hooper.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper. “Unless you were to ask for such a thing… I’ll keep our meetings related to Sherlock.” She was very aware of how long her pause was.

In the foyer of the house, Molly turned to face Irene again. “You said that like we’re going to be having more meetings.”

“Oh, yes. I intend to see you quite often. As I said, I’m notoriously relentless.”

“But I’ve already told you where I stand!” she cried indignantly.

“Well, there can be no harm in getting to know each other a bit more. Perhaps you’ll warm to me as a friend, and not an acquaintance.”

“What are you going to do?” Molly retorted. “Force your way into my spare time?”

“Yes.”

Sighing in defeat, Molly’s eyes turned up towards the ceiling.

“Wonderful. Now, Kate should return soon, and I would like some time to catch up with my friend. I can send you off in a cab again, Ms. Hooper.” She opened the door to reveal a sunny, if slightly damp world.

“Stop calling me that. It’s too prim,” Molly grumbled as she maneuvered past Irene and onto the front stoop.

“Pet?”

“Molly’s fine,” she said with a glare over her shoulder.

Irene had meant to rummage through the kitchen for something a bit stronger than tea, but before she could even begin to consider what to pour herself, her ringtone shattered the calming silence. Sighing, she pressed her phone to her ear.

"What is it now, Sebastian?"


	5. Chapter 5

_Sebastian_ — _I met with Mr. Stone as you asked. He did indeed recognize me. I assume he will keep my identity a secret, as I threatened to reveal his side profession to his family. However, he has requested that I return at a later time. I think he may be in shock. The sister was there as well…_

_IA_

_Ignore her—don’t arouse his suspicions. Play the normal customer. Tell me the instant he says you can see him again._

_SM_

 

In keeping with her promise of future meetings, Irene began to visit Molly at St. Bart's. Nathan Stone's image had entered and left her mind with equal speed, as she had a better challenge to focus on. The young businessman had been agitated to see her in the office building, and she had wasted no time in reminding him how much damage she could cause where his inheritance was concerned. It was easy—she was assured a proper meeting in the near future and ushered from the sleek building with the haste of a bomb threat.

Even that small shot of adrenaline did nothing for her anymore. The intrigue did not rest with the easily swayed Mr. Stone or even Sebastian, but with the steadfast rock that was Molly Hooper. In a plot that vaguely reminded her of her time with Sherlock, Irene quickly developed an instinctual need to establish her presence in the woman's everyday life.

The first time Irene entered the hospital with paperwork claiming that she had permission to be present in the laboratory, Molly bumped her hand against a glass beaker and nearly knocked it to the floor. Shaking, she pressed her gloved fingertips against the surface of the glass to assure herself that it was still intact in its stand.

"Y-you can't be here right now," she stammered, almost angry. She silently took in the sight of Irene's elegant black dress standing out against the white tile and polished metals around her. The entire scene seemed to her like some ridiculous Vogue photo shoot.

Irene cocked an eyebrow and made her way around a cart of equipment so that she was facing Molly across the cluttered lab counter. "Can't I? It says here," she brandished a set of papers, "that I'm to inspect your laboratory today."

"Someone will probably realize that there aren't any inspections planned for today," Molly huffed.

"Well, then. I suppose we should leave before anyone notices the breach." Irene reached out to roll the white latex glove off of Molly's nearest hand, avoiding contact with the beakers as she did so.

"Irene—don’t." Pulling back her bare hand, Molly fixed her eyes on Irene's. Her stomach knotted at the prospect of assertion, but her work in the hospital was one aspect of her life that she felt in control of. Breathing deeply, she plucked her glove from Irene's grasp. "My shift isn't over for another hour. I can't leave right now, but you can."

"Do you want me to leave?" Irene withdrew her hands from the edge of the counter. Though she kept her expression as playful and unreadable as ever, Molly could have sworn she looked slightly hurt.

She knew that the problem had nothing to do with the fear of her supervisors finding an unauthorized woman in the lab, but with her own confusion. The morgue was, without irony, a sanctuary to Molly. She had spent more than nine years in various schools to reach the level of education she now possessed and that had included many sleepless nights of watching the text on the page before her blurring into ambiguous shapes. In a way, the solitary nature of her profession proved to be a good fit for Molly. Both the morgue and the lab provided her with a cold sort of comfort where everything was concrete science. For Irene to enter this room, to bring her familiar and intoxicating aroma into the air that was usually so sterile, Molly felt jolted. Her sanctuary had been discovered.

"No,” she finally said. “You can stay. Just... Never mind. Just please be quiet."

The hour passed quickly, even as Molly had to struggle to concentrate more than usual. She tried to leave Irene behind while she went to close down the morgue, but she meandered along after her anyway.

"Don't you ever feel strange about this job?" Irene wondered aloud, looking around the bright room.

"What do you mean?"

"Your...emotions."

"Oh. You mean, if I ever feel sad?"

Irene smiled wantonly. "Sure."

"Well," Molly said, checking the locks around the room. "It is a bit of a dark atmosphere, but I love it. I love the difficult work and how no one else—“ She bit her lip.

"You love that no one else inhabits this department very much," Irene clarified.

"Yeah." Molly bowed her head as she pulled the door shut behind the two of them, attempting to avoid eye contact. "I guess it's partially because I feel more at ease without having so many people to talk to. I don't...I don't do that well." She attempted a smile.

"You're talking to me, pet."

"Yes, but it's still difficult. You're still thinking I'm an idiot."

"I’m not, actually." Irene grazed her fingertips over the cuff of Molly's lab coat. "And, being someone who is not idiotic in the least, you have the lovely privilege of choosing our restaurant tonight."

"What?" Molly drew back, frowning. "I thought _this_ was our meeting."

"Oh, no. This is just where I get to observe you in your environment. It's rather fascinating, as is that blush."

"Er—all right. What was the point of going out to eat, again?"

"Oh, one never knows what happens when two people become friends," Irene sang, helping Molly out of her lab coat.

"You mean you want information from me."

"As I said; one never knows."

 

For the second time in a week, Molly found herself sitting across a table from the formidable Irene Adler. Her fingers nervously tapped out a sporadic rhythm on the plastic surface of her menu as she watched Irene sip her wine. "I'm sorry. This isn't the sort of place you usually eat at, is it?"

“No," Irene shrugged. "Although, it is rather...homey." She glanced around at the wooden panels on the walls and the warm, almost orange lamps. "I did say you could choose."

"Why was that?"

"I'm sure you'd feel more comfortable in your own element."

Molly put down the menu, taking her own glass into her hands. The drink was heady, but she kept her senses focused on the conversation. "I like this place. But, doesn't that mean you're out of your element?"

"Not exactly," Irene laughed, eyes flickering up at the ceiling. "I think most who know me would agree that having dinner with someone to get what I want is precisely my element."

Molly’s lips paused on the edge of the wine glass as she made a small connection in her mind, the liquid sloshing up to barely stain her lips. "Hang on," she said. "You tried to do that to Sherlock. You told me you tried to...seduce him." Irene nodded. "Is that what t-this is?"

Irene set her wine aside, her tongue passing briefly over her red lips. She wanted to be delicate about it. "Molly, I thought I had covered this."

"I know. I just get this feeling that you are trying to do that to me."

The red lips lost their smirk for moment, and Irene was suddenly plagued with the burning desire to be very indelicate. As usual, she wasn't entirely opposed to the concept of using her physical charms to elicit information or loyalty. Watching the lamplight shimmer in Molly's widened eyes, Irene found herself wondering if the draw to this woman was purely out of her desire to overcome the challenge, or if she was attempting to satisfy a deeper need. She must have been lost in thought for quite some time, as the waiter arrived shortly and forced the conversation to pause.

When the waiter had departed with their menus, Irene tapped the side of her glass with a nail to draw Molly's wandering attention back to her. "Molly, you must understand that being in London right now is not the ideal situation for me to be in. At this point, I do what is necessary to obtain what I require, and if you wish to perceive it as seduction, then it will not be a new experience for me."

Molly felt the faint flush of pink expand over her face, making her internal reaction obvious. "I'm not used to any of this."

"Any of what?"

"People paying attention to me. Although, it doesn't really matter since you're only getting to know me as a roundabout way of using me."

"That's a harsh way to phrase it, pet."

"Well, it's what you're doing."

"Hmmm. Maybe not." Irene allowed her gaze to linger on Molly’s face for a moment too long, enjoying how the faint flicker of lamplight played with her features.

"Forget it. It doesn't matter, okay?" Molly sighed, accepting the plate of pasta that their waiter was handing to her. She flashed him a wide, though tight smile as he moved onto another table.

"Come here often, do you?" Irene asked, eyebrows raised. "You're wrong, though. It matters a great deal to me, as your current friend. Who was it that hurt you so much?”

"Does there have to be a specific reason for my refusal to trust you?"

"There usually is, yes.”

Molly twirled a clump of golden noodles around her fork, considering her answer. Her habitual honesty was usually something she was proud of, though it was being tested in light of Irene's entrance into her world. "There were a few people," she said, deciding on the truth. "And one I think you understand about as much as I do."

Irene’s laugh reverberated into the glass as she drank. "Yes, probably. I'm afraid only Dr. Watson ever came close to understanding that man."

"What about you?" Molly asked, noticing the way Irene was still picking through her appetizer. "Have you ever been with, er, a man?"

"Oh, yes. I once courted a lawyer when I first began taking clients."

"Why didn't it work out?"

"Godfrey wasn't terribly fond of my career... His family thought of me as a common whore, and I believe he thought the same at times. Although, I think it had more to do with the fact that I was making more money whipping people than he was after years of law school." She shrugged, biting into a roll.

“He left you, then?”

"Oh, God no. I moved out and took my money with me. I hear he's married now, but I never cared enough to investigate that claim."

"And Kate?" Molly asked, her jaw frozen as she anticipated the answer.

"Kate," Irene began, angling her face closer to Molly's, "is a dear friend of mine who made my work far easier and more organized. She may have, ah, assisted in some cases, but that certainly depended on the client. People like different things." She lowered her eyes, allowing the shadows across her face to pool under her full lashes. She knew Molly was watching her intently, but she liked to play games. Her gaze drifted over Molly's throat and jaw, taking a while to meet her eyes again. "What do you like, Molly?"

"We should ask for the check," Molly blurted. Her skin was warm with embarrassment and she felt there was little else to do but to escape into the open air, where the temperature was hopefully less severe than that in the small restaurant.

Irene settled back into her chair, a look of disappointment and pity flashing across her face. "If you wish."

The two women had hardly made it through the front door when Molly's phone rang from deep within her bag. Rummaging through it, she pulled out the phone and felt her heart sink a fraction of an inch as she looked at the caller ID. "Greg?"

"Molly, can you come to the hospital?"

"Now?" She shot Irene a glance.

"I'm sorry; I know you've probably had enough of that place for one day. There's a body we need you to look at. I wouldn't ask you to come in so late, but this person's apparently rather popular and we'll need to release a statement sooner than later."

"All right, then," Molly sighed. "I'm on my way." Replacing her phone back in the bag, she turned to face Irene again. "Um, thank you for the dinner."

"There now," Irene purred. "It wasn't so bad, was it? There was no interrogation."

"Yeah, I know. Look, I have to go back to hospital for another shift tonight."

"Why on earth are you taking on another shift tonight? What's happened?"

"There's a, um, body that the Detective Inspector wants me to look at. You know; the public needs information as soon as possible." She craned her neck to see around Irene, searching the street for a cab. "You should go back to your hotel, okay?"

"Oh no," Irene interjected. "I'm not going to miss an opportunity to see you putting that wonderful brain of yours to use."

"You can't come with me to the morgue!"

"I already have, though." She smiled sweetly.

"That was different! This time, there's going to be a body there. No one's going to allow you to stay."

"I'll wait in the lab."

"Fine!" Molly shrieked, flinging herself into the cab she had managed to hail and resolving to not look at Irene the entire drive back to the hospital. She might even have succeeded, had those long, graceful fingers not moved to wrap themselves around her own in the dark of the car, balancing somewhere between possession and comfort.

 

"Who is he?"

The man lying on the slab stared up at the ceiling with glassy, unfocused eyes. As the paramedics had been the only ones to handle him so far, his casual clothes had been left undisturbed. Molly tugged down the collar of his shirt with gloved hands, checking for possible bruises.

"Name's Jacob Everett. There's no use in looking for injuries; he died in the ambulance over an hour ago."

Molly looked up to meet Lestrade's eyes. "Did he call his own ambulance, then?"

"He did," Lestrade said, rubbing the palm of his hand over his face, "but, as the cause of death isn't obvious from his appearance, we're legally bound to do an autopsy."

"I think the cause of death is fairly obvious, but we’ll probably have to take a saliva sample to test that theory." She frowned, remembering the girl she'd examined earlier in the week. Murder didn't necessarily mean that Moriarty's network was involved, though she couldn't suppress a trickle of nervousness at the thought.

"And?"

"Poison," she sighed.

"I thought so. There weren't any signs of a forced entry or a struggle."

"Hand me a cotton swab, will you?" Molly asked him, gently pulling open the corpse's mouth.

"I'll get it," came a voice from the doorway. Lestrade and Molly turned to see what appeared to be another hospital worker, clad in a white lab coat and holding a clipboard under her arm. Behind Lestrade's back, Molly glowered at Irene.

"And you are?" said Lestrade, trailing his gaze over Irene. There was a sense of aesthetic appreciation there, but Molly had begun to expect that where her new friend was concerned.

"Her assistant." Irene grasped Lestrade's hand tightly, grinning. "Dr. Norton. I've only just joined the hospital's staff this week."

"DI Lestrade. Actually, just Greg." Turning back to Molly, he nodded to the body. "So, how long until we can get the lab results?"

Molly placed the swab Irene had handed her, now damp with saliva, into a plastic bag. "Maybe half an hour, but we can be nearly certain about the poison without it. He isn't the first one I've seen come in like this recently."

"If this is the work of the same person, that's not good. A double murder won’t go over well with the public." He shook his head, the light glinting off the silver spikes of his hair. "This guy had just returned from an evening out with a rather important friend of his. Nathan Stone, I think."

From her place at the foot of the table, Irene's composure seemed to develop a crack that spread over her features and burst at her open mouth. She stared at the body without seeing it, and though it wasn't fear, Molly sensed a form of panic.

Noticing the rift, Lestrade grimaced and clapped Molly on the shoulder. "Well, I should be off, then. There's nothing we can do until the results come back, even if you're sure about the poison. Thanks for coming in so late."

"Of course," she muttered.

"Dr. Norton," he said, nodding to Irene, who had seemed to regain control of her expression and returned the gesture.

Molly waited until Lestrade's back disappeared out the door before turning on Irene. "What was that?"

"Whatever do you mean?" Irene slipped off the lab coat with a shudder and folded it in her arms. "I had to get in somehow."

"No, I mean the other thing. You looked shocked when he mentioned that Stone man. If you have something to say, then say it. This is the second person connected to him; the woman that was brought in last week was his secretary.”

Irene assessed Molly with her eyes for a long moment. "I thought I knew him from somewhere. Don't worry about it, dear." She seemed to have either forgotten they were in a morgue or chosen to ignore it, for she tilted her head down to briefly press her lips against Molly's cheek. The touch left the faint ghost of a lipstick stain on her pale skin, though it wouldn't be noticed or washed off until much later that night. "Don't stay here too late; you look exhausted."

"Wait!" Molly darted forward to pull Irene back by her arm. "Look, I don't need to necessarily know this particular secret of yours, but you can't be like this. If you really want us to have some sort of alliance or friendship, then you have to be willing to tell me things. Things that matter."

"That isn't quite how I function, Molly."

"Yeah," she snorted. "I've noticed. You still have to try, though."

Irene swallowed, readjusting the bundle of fabric in her arms. This woman had only known her for a matter of days, and already she was leading Irene into that zone of discomfort that she'd established after her encounter with Sherlock. Trust was not high on her list of personal merits, but she appeased Molly with a curt nod anyway.

 

_Be careful who you kill next time, Sebastian. I don't want anyone to trace the death of Mr. Stone's friends to us. You may have your own network to protect you, but as long as I'm in London I need your security. Can’t have you being hunted down._

_IA_

_Your own damn enemies aren't my problem. I haven’t killed anyone recently. Keep your guard up if there's another killer near us._

_SM_


	6. Chapter 6

The master bedroom of fourty-four Belgravia was eerily quiet. The morning light usually brought a sense of purpose and excitement that swept through the house; Irene would wander through her closet, appraising herself in the mirror, and Kate would busy herself with anything she could. Phone calls would be made and appointments set up. Seeing the house so still made Irene uneasy, but it had been her idea to leave the hotel. In cutting down on the time she spent near the public, it was less likely that she would run into someone she knew.

The hot bath water engulfed her shoulders and throat as she sank into the porcelain tub, resting her neck against the rim. Even in this relaxed position, she felt lightheaded. It had been more than a week since her encounter with Molly in the morgue, but both their lives seemed to overlap in that short time. Irene didn't understand how this had happened, and part of her confusion was due to the fact that the bridge connecting her heart and brain had lay abandoned for so long. She'd felt this comfortable around someone once before, though she couldn't say how many years it had been. The final argument with that other girl left such a bitter taste in Irene's mouth that she entirely preferred her solitary ways. Excluding her oldest friend, of course.

"There you are," Kate sang, popping her head around the bathroom door. "I wanted to tell you that I had Sarah's department send a shipment of new clothes over."

Irene flicked up one side of her mouth. "Sweet of you."

"Oh, come on. I've never seen you so morose. Wouldn't some very expensive dresses help?"

"I am not _morose_." She waved her hand and sent a light spray of water over the tub's edge.

"Confused, then. Turn around and sit up." Kate dipped her hands into the bathwater before beginning to massage Irene's shoulders. "What have you been doing with that poor girl? Molly?"

"That's just it. I am confused, Kate. I'm always in control, and now I’m not because she has something I need." She closed her eyes against the light coming through the window, relaxing into Kate's pressuring hands. “It's all backwards.”

"Well... Actually, never mind."

"Kate."

"I was just thinking... Maybe she has control over you not because you're weaker, but because you're letting her."

A drop of water fell from Kate's hands as she removed them from Irene's shoulders and exited the room, meeting the floor with a plop. Rotating herself into her original position, Irene pressed her palms against the tub’s side and allowed herself to sink until all but the top of her face was submerged. Under the surface, all was silent.

 

"What's the occasion for this little outing?"

Molly's lips formed a frown around the straw of her iced coffee. The sun beat down onto the heads of all the passerby in the park, causing her to feel more flustered than usual. Not for the first time, she wondered why she had even bothered to invite Irene out for a walk. "Does there have to be an occasion? The weather's so lovely."

"You shouldn't have dressed so heavily if it's so warm out," Irene said. "Hmm. I would like to dress you one day."

"Oh, no," Molly laughed, taking another sip of coffee. "Forget it. Why can't you just enjoy yourself without searching for new ways to humiliate me?"

Irene reached up to caress the canopy of branches that their path led them under. The sunlight peeked through the leaves, warming her face in different sections. "You know, this is the first time we've been out together without me instigating it."

Molly was thankful for the cover of shade. "Is it?"

"Yes." Irene slowed her pace, wondering if Molly's tolerance of her small advances was something she wished to be private. Taking Molly's closest hand, she carefully uncurled the fingers that had immediately tensed. Molly's eyes darted around the park, but Irene shushed her with a low breath. Slowly, she brought the pads of Molly's fingers to her lips, wet and cold with condensation from the plastic coffee cup. The faint taste of chocolate permeated her mouth, and she parted her lips to flick her tongue against Molly's skin. "Sweet."

"Irene, what are you doing?" Molly asked nervously.

She didn't answer right away, choosing to lower Molly's hand and hold her gaze with her own. She enjoyed the feeling of control flowing through her veins again, taking over. "You could help me to be free of my problem, you know. You don't want me to be in trouble, do you?" Her hand trailed up over the fabric of the cardigan that covered Molly's back, making shallow indents with her nails. "All you have to do is tell me where he is." Their foreheads tilted together.

"Irene!" Molly grabbed her by the wrists, pushing her away and behind the tree.

"Fine!" Irene huffed, smoothing out her sheath dress. "You needn't be so callous about it."

"No, no," Molly hissed. "Be quiet and stay there."

Concealed in shadow, Irene remained where she had been pushed, straining to hear what Molly was doing. There was a scrape of shoes against dirt, a pause, and then—

"John!”

Another set of footsteps padded towards Molly, though they were slower and accompanied by what was probably a cane. The footsteps stopped, and the silence that followed was filled by the chatter of those around them.

"Molly?" said John, his voice nearly flat.

"Yes—I didn't expect to see you here. Leg's still bad, is it?"

"Yeah. I'd rather not use the cane again, but what can you do? I thought some exercise would help."

From her hiding place, Irene desperately wanted to see John Watson's face, to gauge for herself how he was faring since his flatmate's supposed death. Something deep inside her stung in response to the coldness of his voice, but she pushed it aside in order to concentrate.

"How are you getting on at home?" Molly asked tentatively.

"I'm not home all that often, actually."

"Oh?"

"I've been taking more hours at the practice. You know, keeping myself busy."

"Right. Listen, John. If you'd like to, you could come round to my place sometime soon for dinner. It doesn't have to be—“ She stopped, and Irene could imagine her taking a deep breath with her eyes closed in that infuriatingly sweet manner of hers. "You should just get a decent meal."

"Molly, I can cook just fine. Mrs. Hudson helps, too, sometimes."

"I know."

"You don't have to look out for me, but it's nice of you to try."

"I know, John. Just promise me you'll come by if you have some time, okay?" She was aware that she was at this point imploring.

"Yeah. Ta, Molly."

She waited until John's figure became a small, dark shape in the distance before ambling back to the tree where Irene stood, her expression bland. Molly placed her hand on Irene's shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"What? Of course I am."

They continued on their walk, though Molly's perception of Irene's uneasiness was so great that she felt she could almost hear the woman's thoughts. Eventually, she shook her head. "He'll be okay, Irene. You barely knew John, so don't worry about him. That's my job."

"Is it?"

Molly chewed absentmindedly on the corner of her lip, deciding how she should answer. "Every so often, I give reports to Sherlock. I'm his connection to this place while he's off saving the world or insulting people. It's really the same thing to him."

"I would expect him to have a correspondent," Irene mused. "I suppose it makes sense that he would choose you, as you already helped him and knew he would remain alive. There's no point in him taking two confidences."

"Hey!" Molly yelped, squaring her shoulders. "He didn't make me his correspondent because it was logical. He trusts me, though you obviously don't."

Her words didn't leave Irene unscathed, but Irene would be damned before she showed this pain and allowed the young pathologist to have any more power over her than she already had. "I didn't realize John would be so affected," she admitted.

"How could anyone know?"

Both women carried on down the path for some time, occasionally weaving through large amounts of people walking in the opposite direction, but mostly wandering in a trance that held both their senses. Irene's phone eventually broke the reverie, chiming from the small pocket on her dress.

"Hello? Ah, Mr. Stone." A devilish smile overtook her mouth. "No, of course I'd be happy to visit. I'll have one of my people send a car for me. Goodbye."

Molly watched as Irene texted someone else, her fingertips flying over the keys in a blur. She felt her spirit sink when Irene slid the phone out of sight and returned her attention to Molly. "I'm sorry, love. I have to get going now."

"Oh." She took a sip of the coffee that she seemed to have forgotten about until then, the cool liquid startling her.

"Are you disappointed, Ms. Hooper?"

"I don't know." She met Irene's eyes. "I shouldn't kid myself into thinking that you're here for anything besides my connection to Sherlock. I keep forgetting that."

Irene moved closer, tilting her head to the side. With a careful thumb, she wiped a drop of moisture from Molly's bottom lip.

"So do I."

 

With Irene's departing figure, Molly was left with an irritating sense of loneliness. Not wanting to go home to a quiet flat so early in the afternoon, she made her way back to the entrance of the park and called another friend.

By the time she arrived at the small cafe, Mrs. Hudson was already comfortably seated in a booth near the front window. The two women hadn't been close for long, only having met on several occasions and chatting briefly at the Christmas party. After Sherlock's death, however, it had become a custom of theirs to meet up when the fancy struck. While they called their outings time for "girl talk," there was a silent agreement that it was really an opportunity to compare notes on John's progress.

"Hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson said, rising from her seat to receive Molly's peck on the cheek. There was a look of exhaustion around her eyes, though they also warmed to see the younger woman.

"How are you?" Molly settled into the opposite side of the booth.

"Oh, don't worry about me. I know I look tired."

"I suppose we all are," Molly sighed.

Their tea arrived shortly after, but Molly couldn't be bothered to drink hers yet. She dipped her spoon into the steaming liquid, watching it gather into a miniature whirlpool.

"All right, dear." Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "What's he done this time?"

The spoon fell with a clatter. "He hasn't _done_ anything, though. He just looks the same as always, and I don't know what to do." She dropped her head, desperately wanting to continue with her lament, to say that she wished Sherlock would come back already so their lives could resume, even if it would take ages for them all to readjust to having him back. Her stomach heaved with guilt as she thought this, knowing that she was keeping a secret from Mrs. Hudson that would bring her immense relief. Again, Molly wished that Sherlock would have chosen someone else to be his confidant. The pressure was unbearable.

Mistaking the turmoil on Molly's face for something else entirely, Mrs. Hudson tried for comfort. "Look, Molly. There's really nothing else to be done but to help John in any way we can. He's so brave, though; refusing so much of it."

"He’ll always be the soldier.”

"It's still a struggle, though. It's never easy when people come into your life like that, bringing excitement and companionship. You get so used to them; their faults almost vanish in your eyes."

Molly sat slightly frozen, the tea long forgotten. As Mrs. Hudson's gaze drifted elsewhere, she felt her mind unravel and present her with images she didn't want to see. What if Irene suddenly left her as Sherlock left John? Some rational part of her brain reminded her that she'd only known Irene for a short time, but all the same... She would feel very strange without those persistent smirks and the phone calls that sometimes came in the dead of night, waking her from deep slumbers and summoning her to God knows where for meetings.

The meeting earlier that afternoon had been her idea, though. Somehow, Irene's persistence was wearing Molly down in ways she didn't quite understand. Unintentionally, her mind jumped back to that moment in the park, under the tree. Irene had brought their faces so close together. Molly was entranced, feeling warm breath on her face as Irene spoke each slow word. And those lips—the ones that formed those words but also pressed against her fingers and parted to admit the playful tongue that danced over her skin. She shouldn't be thinking about that tongue so intensely, but—

"...be getting home."

Molly blinked, trying to return to the present. "Sorry, what?"

"I said," Mrs. Hudson laughed. "I need to be getting home soon. I did promise him that I would swing by with my baking."

"Oh, of course," Molly replied with a smile, her heart still beating a trifle too quickly. She stood to accept Mrs. Hudson's embrace, enjoying the maternal comfort that washed over her as the older woman's thin arms wrapped around her back.

"We should do this more often, Molly. We girls need to stick together in times like this."

As Molly watched her friend leave the cafe and cross the street, she was again filled with remorse at having to keep her in the dark. She had been right; nothing was ever easy.

Back in her flat, Molly wandered into the bathroom without pausing to turn on any lights. She placed her hands on either side of the sink, watching the shadows play over her flushed face in the mirror. It didn't make sense. She was under stress, yes, but her blood shouldn't be acting like that, flaming her body. She cupped her hands under the faucet and splashed cool water onto her face, attempting to quell the strange sensations.

Finding herself back in the lounge, she flipped on a lamp and took her favorite place on the sofa. The book in her hands did little for her nerves at first, though she eventually found a rhythm in the words that calmed her down. She'd almost completely relaxed some time later when a sharp set of knocks banged against her door.

The cat raced from the room as fast as his stubby legs would take him, mewing loudly. Molly ignored this, nearing the door with suspicion. She didn't know who to expect on her doorstep this late in the evening, but it certainly wasn't the breathless and disheveled woman that she saw in the few inches of space she peeked through.

"Irene?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Sarah" is Sarah Burton of Alexander McQueen; not John's ex-girlfriend.


	7. Chapter 7

She felt the pathologist's eyes inspecting every visible inch of her, fixing on the small tear near the hem of her dress and the dirty smudges marking her legs. Her bare feet probably didn't help the matter, as she suddenly appeared so small and wild without the usual support of tall heels. Adjusting the shoes in her hand, she breathed a low greeting.

"Why are you here?" Molly hissed. "What's happened?"

Irene glanced behind her at the darkened street, the unpleasant taste of fear entering her mouth for the first time in what felt like ages. "I need to come in, Molly."

"Do you need a place to hide?"

"No—Molly." She sighed. "I need you."

Instantly, the door was pushed open just wide enough to admit Irene and was quickly shut behind her, the lock turning with a soft metallic click. She entered the sitting room with as much grace as she usually possessed, though there was something about her expression that made Molly feel as if Irene had no idea where she was. "Please," she said, scurrying to the sofa to remove her book from the cushions. "Sit down. You look ill."

Choosing to not take this as an insult, Irene sank into the spot so recently vacated by Molly. She hardly heard the other woman dash off to the kitchen, nor her call through the doorway. "Would you like some tea? It would calm you down."

"Have you got anything stronger than that?" she replied, trying to ignore the sounds of creaking cabinet doors through the wall as Molly rummaged for a glass. She was exhausted, though that was to be expected of one after running countless miles through various streets and allies, sometimes scaling fences to remain unseen. She was used to exertion, though a different sort entirely. What was truly so irritating were the words that caused her to flee like that; like a fugitive. _Ms. Adler, I took the liberty of tracking the locations that you requested these bombs be sent to. Nice try._ There had been an assembly of dark-suited men then, closing in on her while that damned businessman lounged tranquilly in his chair behind the desk. _Boys._

Unfortunately for them, Irene had dealt with men of their caliber before, and neither group escaped without screaming muscles and broken ligaments. It just didn't happen.

Her reprieve arrived a few minutes later in the form of an amber drink, carefully carried to her by Molly in an ornately carved glass. As she accepted it, she flashed Molly a sly smile. "There was no need to open a new bottle."

"Oh, I didn't," she muttered, looking at the carpet.

"Well, you certainly spent a while looking for your best glass." She drank, and the liquid immediately burned through to her veins, conducting sparks of energy back into her.

Watching this transition, Molly began to move towards the sofa by the inch, eventually settling on the edge of the coffee table and awkwardly crossing her legs underneath her. "Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Irene shut her eyes. "In the beginning," she said after a long moment. "You wanted to know if I was a criminal. What made you change your mind?"

"I don't know," she breathed, thinking of Mrs. Hudson's words. "I suppose I got used to you being around so much. Finding out what you were became less important."

"I only ask because you may feel inclined to think badly of me again after tonight."

Irene set the drink down with a mostly steady hand, though Molly ached to wrap an arm around her shoulders in comfort. Suppressing the urge, she continued. "Why would I think badly of you?"

"I didn't come to London by choice, Molly. As much as I detest admitting it, I'm here on someone else's orders."

Unbidden images spilled into Molly's head, blocking out everything else she could think about the woman sitting across from her. Those same thoughts had, of course, been present when the two had first met, but it had been different. Back then, Molly hadn't been so secretly mesmerized by her. There was nothing. With lips that didn't seem to want to obey her, Molly tried to prove herself wrong. "W-whose orders?"

"Sebastian Moran's."

Connections were quickly made, and Molly felt the blood rushing from her face before heating the rest of her body in a fury. Jumping to her feet, she found herself slowly backing away from Irene. "You were on Moriarty's side all along."

"No, Sebastian isn't—"

"I know who he is!" The shout reverberated through the room, stunning both women into silence. Some deep, foreign part of Molly should have been pleased at being able to confront such a woman as Irene Adler, but the small promotion in self esteem was smothered by the weight of the moment. She pretended to ignore Irene, who was subtly re-positioning her legs as if she were about to pounce. "That was part of Sherlock's plan. He was going to hunt down Moran and kill him. He told me."

"I was right, then," Irene announced, eyes glowing. "Moran was Sherlock's main target after Moriarty's death."

"Then..." Molly sighed, pushing back the loose pieces of hair framing her face. "I didn't want you to be, Irene, but then you are too." Her eyes frantically searched the room, finally landing on the top of the bookshelf where her phone rested.

Irene followed this line of sight carefully, glancing at the phone and back at Molly. "Don't."

"Why shouldn't I? You've been lying to me!" Hurt filled her eyes. "You're in league with _them_ , and—and you put me in danger just by being around me so much." She could have prolonged her pause there, could have waited for Irene to object, but she wouldn't. It was all true. "I'm sorry Irene, but you're an easy link to Moran and I... I have to tell Sherlock."

She calmly made for the phone with an outstretched arm, but her wrist was forcibly pulled, bones constrained so that Molly let out a gasp of pain. Irene had lunged forward, latching onto Molly and dragging her by the arm until they were again nose to nose. "Please don't make me be harsh with you, because I will be," she hissed. "This is not how we're doing this."

Molly flinched at the fire that was blazing in Irene's eyes, and the grip on her wrists was loosened as Irene noticed her fear. She allowed Molly to sink back into her previous seat on the table, standing before her with her shoulders rolled back, attempting to appear more calm than threatening. Her mouth parted to admit her apology, but she bit it off with sharper words. "Listen. I'm sure you'll have trouble believing this, but I had no choice in the matter. He said he would kill me if I didn't do as I was told. That in itself isn't a new threat for me, but I couldn't bear coming here and staying hidden like a prisoner."

At that moment, Molly caught a rare glimpse of pure, normal humanity in Irene. Her motivation for everything was protection—protection for her freedom. Her spirit may have been the polar opposite of Molly's, though Molly knew that it was a spirit that craved excitement and recognition, none of which were aspects gained by hiding for long periods of time. Taking advantage of Irene's temporary vulnerability, Molly spoke up. "Why do you need to find Sherlock, exactly?"

"Working with Moran gives me certain advantages. I know where he'll be in the coming month, and I want to pass that information onto Sherlock."

"But why? Why would you bother to help him?"

A puff of breath pushed from Irene's mouth in a mournful sigh. "I owe him a debt. He saved my life."

"What?" Confusion filled Molly's voice. "You-you faked your death, though."

"Only because of him!" Irene snapped. "I was put up for execution months ago and dear Mr. Holmes rushed in at the last second to intervene. I can't... I can't ignore that."

The mere fact that the dominatrix was admitting some sort of defeat at all amazed Molly, and she finally relaxed her control over her limbs, allowing her hand to reach out and wrap around Irene's. Irene frowned in response, not looking at Molly but flexing her fingers underneath Molly's as if to acknowledge the gesture. It felt so strange for Molly to have any part of Irene underneath her, as if she were being accepted in some way. Comfort, though, was no new territory to Molly. Even if they didn't deserve it, she seemed to always be the one catching others when they fell. It was a tiresome role at times, but she wasn't going to give it up just then.

"What happened tonight, Irene? Tell me what went wrong."

Irene's eyelids fluttered shut again. "I was working as his emissary. He wanted bombs, and I was the front for that mission. I'd hardly been in the dealer's office for ten minutes before he showed up with his men, saying they knew I was working for him. I... persuaded them to leave me alone." She recalled how, for the second time, her elbow had collided with the region between a man's legs.

"Are you all right?" Molly looked again at Irene's bare feet and the tear on her dress. "Did you... run here?"

"I certainly couldn't just take a cab home with them on my trail!"

"But did you get hurt?"

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not."

Irene released Molly's hand so quickly the tips of her nails scratched the already faintly bruised skin. "Do you think I enjoy having to say these things? That other people have any sort of control over me? I _live_ to do that to others. I _am_ control. This shouldn't be happening."

Forgoing all plans of silence, Molly stood and managed to square her shoulders. "If it's so difficult for you to admit, then why are you even telling me all this? You could just keep lying to me, after all!"

Irene titled her head, studying Molly as if she'd never seen her before that moment. Through fresh eyes. As much as she didn't want her next words to be said, they tumbled out in a wave of confusion. "I trust you. I don't know why, but I do."

As soon as it was out, Irene felt an unfamiliar pang of regret in her stomach. She had needed to say that, but it was still difficult. Her vision was suddenly full of Molly, her head suddenly spinning.

"Um, I..." Molly swallowed nervously. "If you don't want to, we don't have to keep talking about th—“

Her voice broke off as Irene dove forward, pressing her lips against Molly's with a force that made her wince. Her mouth burned for a moment with the pain that the kiss elicited, blood pulsating furiously under the skin. That burn rapidly turned into something sweeter as Irene began to rely on her skills and worked out a rhythm, learning how to move against Molly. For a moment, she wondered if those skills were as effective as she thought they were, as Molly stood frozen with bafflement under her hands. Slowly, she grazed Molly's jaw and settled her hand against her neck. Timidly, Molly attempted to combat Irene's movements.

Entangled, the two women half stumbled across the room as Irene's weight pressed into Molly and forced her to move backwards. For a moment, Molly was terrified. Her sight was compromised and her other four senses were entirely consumed by Irene, blinding her. The pit of her stomach seemed to drop as she tipped back; thinking she was going to fall, but her shoulders met the wall with a soft thud. Lips trailed down her throat, and she wasn't surprised to feel her wrists being pinned against the wall beside her. Soon, Irene resumed their kiss and heat swallowed Molly again.

She could feel her face growing hot with exasperation, draining her energy. Irene's vigor was only growing stronger, but it was difficult to keep up with. Faint, multicolored spots began to dance behind Molly's closed lids. Her arms yanked free of Irene. "This... This is too much," she panted.

Irene stepped back, strands of loose hair falling from their pins. She grinned. "You didn't try to stop me."

"Pinning me against a wall might have had something to do with that." Her breathing was still heavy, weighing her words with long pauses in between.

"Might have." Irene turned to gesture towards the bookshelf behind them. "Do you still want to call Sherlock and tell him why I'm here, now that we've got that out of the way?"

"What? No, I... Are you still in danger?"

"I can call him for you, if you'd like." She picked up the discarded phone, turning it slowly in her hand. "I'm sure you have his number on here, though probably under another name."

Before she could switch it on, Molly darted across the room in several leaps and snatched the phone out of Irene's grasp. "Please, Irene. Focus. Would you be in danger if you left my flat right now?"

She pretended to consider her answer. "Yes, if you consider several large, armed men a point of danger. However, it's probably best if I'm not sighted leaving here while they're still interested in me. They would involve you.”

She turned to the window, peering out into the darkness. Behind her back, Molly snatched up the glass Irene had abandoned earlier and took a generous gulp of alcohol from it. She tried to subtly clear her throat and suppress the urge to gag as Irene turned to face her again. "What do you think, Ms. Hooper?" she purred, all her usual charm present again.

"I think you should, um, stay here. Just until it's safe again."

Irene picked up the half empty drink from the table, raising one eyebrow in amusement. "Of course, pet. Just until it's safe again."

For the next half hour or so, Molly busied herself with arranging a makeshift bed on the couch, trying to push the events of that night to the back of her mind. That mental debate would be saved for later. She bid Irene goodnight with an embarrassed murmur before retiring to the comfort of her bedroom and changing for sleep. She was on the verge of drifting off when the door creaked open and she lifted her head to see. Against the hallway light that she had left on, a thin silhouette appeared. It crossed its arms over its midriff, fabric being pulled over the head and falling to the floor with a gentle rustle. She didn't protest as a warm body slipped underneath the sheets beside her, just the tickle of lingerie brushing her skin and soft breath on her pillow.


	8. Chapter 8

There is much that can be said for the speed at which an overwhelming force can enter one's world. It was a gradual transition at first; a sort of osmosis, but it consumed Molly overnight. When she woke the next morning, she instinctively felt about for a warm shoulder or a loose strand of hair, despite having slept alone for years. The thought that it shouldn't be second nature to reach for Irene in her bed never even occurred to her. As it were, the space beside her was filled only with morning light.

Eyes fluttering open, she pressed her palm deeper into the mattress. She'd made the same gesture plenty of times in recent weeks. It was pointless. The brunette woman lying beside her in dim, groggy part of her mind always vanished on waking, and she'd trained herself to ignore it. Every morning. But last night... That hadn't been fantasy, had it? Irene's visit and all the blush-inducing moments it had been filled with might not have happened at all, had the bedroom door not swung open at that moment.

"Good morning, darling."

Molly's head collided with the headboard with a sharp smack. All right, so she wasn't going mad with her fantasies. She watched Irene cross the room through half-closed eyes and shut them completely as the other woman situated herself on the edge of the bed.

As if she knew that her absence had been felt with a particular intensity, Irene quickly filled the gap between them with a light kiss, awakening Molly with faint bursts of mint. She reveled in the sensation for a moment, memorizing the shape of Irene's lips as they were curved under her own. Pulling back, she blinked to see Irene clearly.

"Is that my lipstick?"

"Kate only had time to drive over a set of clean clothes. You can't expect me to go out without a splash of color."

Molly took in the clean, un-ripped dress that Irene was already wearing, despite it being so early. Her hair was also twisted into its usual elegant shape. Molly resisted the urge to pull out the pins and twist her own fingers through each strand instead.

"You're leaving, then?"

Irene raised an eyebrow. "I thought the arrangement was for me to spend one night here. It was an emergency."

"They could still be after you."

"Oh, I'm sure of it," Irene said, running her fingers over the curve of Molly's knee. "That is precisely why you're not coming with me today."

Throwing the sheets and Irene's hand off her legs, Molly leapt from the bed so quickly that her vision blackened for a moment. She felt an incredible urge to isolate the room from all intruders who required Irene's presence; to barricade the flat's front door and keep Irene where Molly could see. Where she could sort out her emotions.

_Where did that come from?_

"Since when have you cared for my personal safety?" she protested. "You've never bothered to keep me at a safe distance from anything."

"And yet," Irene replied from the bed, "you remain unscathed."

 _No, you're taking everything that I consist of and pulling it inside out._ "Irene," she sighed. "I don't think you ever really intended us to be any closer than colleagues, or whatever we were. For that reason, I don't blame you. I... I've no clue how to say this." She shut her eyes tightly for a moment. "I have a habit of becoming too attached to people and then lending them my help whenever it's convenient for them. You know that, because you guessed my feelings for Sherlock right away. It was useless with him, as with everyone."

Irene began to say something at this, but Molly shook her head. "You are not someone I should trust, but you forced your way into being one of those people, and now I'm going to help you too." She strode forward with a surge of confidence, grazing her thumb over Irene's jaw line. "I already attended to what was supposed to be your corpse, and I don't ever want to do that again. Don't make me see you on a metal slab somewhere. Please, Irene..."

Her unexpected loquacity left Irene in silence, which was a victory in its own. Never before had she been without a sharp comment at hand; a remark put forth in husky tones. Molly Hooper had stunned her.

"Now," Molly sighed. "You may as well tell me where you're going, because I'm coming with you."

There was another brief pause, a swallow. "To see Moran. You shouldn't go, though; you have work and you've already missed—“

"No. I'll go."

Grinning, Irene clasped Molly's hands and stood until they were again at eye level with one another. "Better freshen yourself up, then. Not that it will matter much; he exhales enough smoke to be blamed for London's fog problem."

 

It may have been the dark and dampness of the alleyway they were entering, but small whispers of regret followed Molly all the way to the graffiti-ed building. The prospect of being inside such a place was unsettling in itself, but with the most dangerous gunman in England? She wondered if it was too late to call St. Bart's back and announce her sudden recovery from the flu.

Seeing her hold back at the doorway and glance at the street behind them, Irene turned to shoot her a playful smile over her shoulder. "Come, little rabbit. He won't shoot."

Inside the building, a broken bottle lay in pieces on the floor, glass shards in a spiral around it. It wasn't like the sniper to be so careless about his surroundings, and Irene found herself wondering at his state of mind. Absentmindedly, she nudged a piece of glass with the tip of her shoe and watched it glide across the floor, only to be stomped on by a heavy black boot.

"You're late."

Sebastian made an eerie silhouette in the darkened room, fists curled at his sides as if he were expecting either of the women to make the mistake of attacking him.

"Oh, um, I had to make a phone...call..." Molly's voice trailed off at Irene's glare. Sebastian regarded her with a grimace, almost as if her clean blouse and floral scent befouled his makeshift lair. She shrank under his appraisal, knowing that she wasn't required to speak or play any part in the interaction but still reeling at the thought of everything he had done; all the blood that was on his hands. As a pathologist and contact of Sherlock's she was no stranger to the workings of these sorts of people, but this was the first time she had actually met one of them. Just as she was trying to suppress another bout of gory images, Irene drew a fingertip across the top of a shelf.

"You know, I could find you a maid if you're too busy to hire one."

"Please, miss," he said while roughly kicking out a metal chair at the center table. "Have the best seat."

Molly watched the transaction with wide, hesitant eyes, though she took the seat beside Irene without further comment. She tried to keep her gaze on a small stain on the table between them, tracing its outline over and over. He was scrutinizing her now.

"I've seen you before," he muttered. "Where—? Ah. You were with him." He took a drag of his cigarette, puffing out the smoke in a way that indirectly obscured Molly's features. Turning on Irene, he flexed the muscles in his neck with subdued rage. "Did it have to be her?"

"She already knows too much about me. There was no need to involve anyone else."

"You could've dragged in a pedestrian from the bloody street if you were going to ‘involve anyone else’. Christ."

Forgetting her plan of silence, Molly coughed. "What are you talking about?"

Sebastian flicked his eyes over to her face once more before his veins were again pronounced. "Right. We're here because this one," he waved the cigarette at Irene, "has fucked up my schedule."

"To be fair, I did everything as you instructed. You simply underestimated Mr. Stone. The fault isn't mine if you're becoming less careful without hi—“

"And she is going to give me her collateral in one way or another. I'm not saying I wouldn't enjoy finishing what Karachi couldn't do, but I'd rather not abandon my plans." He casually shrugged at no one in particular, as if he had just told the pair that their rent was due.

Bowing her head, Irene chose to aggravate him no further. "My life does depend on it."

"Well, then you had better get thinking, sweetheart. This man's inheritance party is tomorrow night, and it will be significantly more difficult for me to get anything out of him after that. I'd be all for sending you into that mansion and making it your job to find an entrance to get me inside, but now there's that little problem of you being recognized by the guards."

Irene couldn't suppress her expression of fury then; at having to do dealings with someone she had only ever tolerated under Moriarty's hand. Beside her, Molly was glancing back and forth between the two staring down each other. Suddenly, she knew she would have to speak again. There was an opportunity to protect Irene, just as she had promised to do that morning. Ever since Irene's spectacle of vulnerability the previous night, Molly had found more motivation in her desire to shield her from harm. She clasped her own forearm in nervousness.

"I-I could do it."

Both Sebastian and Irene turned to stare at her then. "What the hell do you mean, you'd 'do it'?" Sebastian snarled.

"I mean, I could go in her place. She was going to appear as a guest at the party and then sneak you in, right? They wouldn't recognize my face. No one would. I've never even met Nathan Stone before."

"No," Irene said quietly, unconsciously leaning towards her. "Molly—“

"Don't those things usually have guest lists or something?" Sebastian interrupted.

"Well... He already has Irene listed there as Eva Norton, doesn't he? Do you really think a man like him would think to remove someone's name from a party guest list?"

Her eyes returned to the stain on the table as she felt both sets of eyes fixing on her. Sebastian was still attempting to look at her with anything but contempt, but Irene was beginning to ponder it over. She knew there was logic in what Molly was saying; any emissary under her pseudonym would work, really. All the same, her paranoia was returning, though for once projected onto someone else. She remembered the way her body had ached while she willed her tense muscles to move her farther and farther away from the guards; how her heart had wanted to slam out of her chest. Thinking of Molly in a similar situation, it beat rapidly again and she wished a taste of her riding crop on Sebastian for slowly nodding in agreement.

She swallowed. “Clarisse is in charge of tomorrow night’s plans. He mentioned it to me before.”

“Great,” Sebastian huffed, tapping the end of his cigarette. “I could have done without her.”

Confused, Molly looked between them. “Clarisse?”

“Crazy bitch,” Sebastian answered. “She’s Stone’s sister, but she wanted to be at the top of Moriarty’s group. Tried to kill me a few times to get that spot, too. She’s hardly a threat, but I like to keep my distance.”

“Oh…”

"Anyway, I can live with this situation," he finally said. "So long as you're aware that you're paying off _her_ debt."

Molly swallowed. "It's fine."

Sometime later, somewhere between various puffs of smoke and orange-tinted flickers of the overhead light, Sebastian addressed Molly again. "You're not too bad at this sort of thing, girl. Shame you're playing for the wrong side."

 _I'm not sure that I am,_ she thought, glancing at Irene. _Right now, I'm playing for whatever side she's on._

 

Later, in the evening, Molly was stopped in her nervous pacing about the flat by the sight of Irene leaning against the old balcony past the sitting room, her back turned to Molly. She might have been surveying the passing traffic and pedestrians below. Molly hadn't heard her return home since she'd announced several hours ago that there were several things she had to "collect." There was no use in arguing with the steel will in her voice.

Almost all of London's skyline was painted a deep indigo by then, but even with this cover Molly still felt that familiar flush working its way onto her face as she stepped forward to wrap an arm around Irene's middle, snaking her way to the front. She recognized the fabric under her hands as that of her own bathrobe and quietly chuckled into Irene's hair. "You've been making yourself at home, haven't you?"

No response. "It's fine," Molly stammered. "I don't mind if you borrow my things."

Irene turned under her hands to face her, but there was something off about her expression. Something new. She pressed her back further into the railing. Molly's smile faltered, and suddenly her mind was replete with memories of Sherlock doing the exact same thing; backing off at her advances; choosing to remain silent. This was supposed to be different, though. It was worth the humiliating babbling, wasn't it?

"I mean, you can if you want to. I hadn't even used that lipstick since Christmas, anyway, and—“

"Molly."

"Yes?" she answered too quickly.

"I knew you would go in my place."

She slid her hands off Irene's torso. "I'm sorry?"

"I knew you would replace me as Moran's right hand, if it came to that. I brought you into the situation knowing that for a long time. I didn't... quite understand what that meant for you until now, though. I was hoping that you would refuse, or not volunteer at all."

Inhaling slowly, Molly aimed silent words at the distant rooftops beyond the balcony. Lights were just beginning to switch off in the city; patches of black in a living organism. "Why did you just tell me that?"

"I thought we had reached an agreement last night. Remember? I will be honest with you. Those who have that promise of me are not many in number, Molly."

"No," she shook her head. "Irene! You really have no idea about other people, do you?"

"Why would I bother with trying to understand them? Most of them are so boring," she huffed, and Molly was again strongly reminded of Sherlock. God. It was no wonder that those two had nearly been the others downfall. "I know what people like, and that is always enough."

"No, it's not! You can't just... DO something like that, admit to it, and then expect everything be all right! Honesty usually involves truth from the beginning."

Irene watched her pattern of breathing change along with her words with faint amusement. "Well, go on, then." She tilted her head back as if she were baring her throat. "Call me whatever you like. I can see you have a few insults brewing on that tongue of yours."

Blushing again, Molly knew that any further attempt to seriously chastise Irene was pointless. "You're manipulative. You're impossible, and you are... still wearing my bathrobe."

"I know." Smirking, she reached out to cup the bottom of Molly's jaw. "Are you hungry? We could have dinner..."

"Um, yeah," she said with slight surprise. “Now you mention it. I haven’t been able to do the shopping recently, though. We’d have to go out to eat.”

Irene dropped her hand with a sigh, brushing past Molly on her way back into the warmth of the flat. " _You're_ the one who doesn't know about _people_. Come along, then."

 

The number of restaurants and cafes the two women had frequented in the weeks Irene had been in London couldn't be counted without ambition, but even so, it was a coincidence to see Greg Lestrade entering their current one. The moment Molly had noticed Irene's queer expression and turned to see what she was looking at, she'd abandoned her sandwich with a groan. "This is what I deserve for not doing the shopping."

"Why are you so embarrassed?" Irene asked, still looking past Molly. "He works with Scotland Yard, doesn't he? You're hardly the closest of friends."

"I know, but he'll think we're..."

"Together?" Molly nodded quickly. "I don't see what's so terribly scandalous about that."

"It's not. It's just..." She pressed her fingers against her temple. "Oh, God. I don't know how to do this. You're my assistant, for all he knows."

At the front of the restaurant, Lestrade was just registering where he'd seen Irene's face before and making his way back to their table. She felt compelled to reach across, to take Molly's hand in hers in the obvious gesture. She wanted to run the crescent tips of her nails over the lines of Molly's palms. She wanted to do the same to her wrist, but lightly; only enough to make her shiver. Only the memory of their earlier conversation convinced Irene to keep her hands on her respective side of the table, as well as altering her posture. In all honesty, she wasn't sure she knew how to make her body language convey anything but power or desire.

Unknowing, Molly continued to shrink into her chair's back as Lestrade finally reached them. Seeing her, his eyes widened in surprise. "Molly! Didn't expect to find you here, too."

"Hello, Greg," she laughed, though her voice was off.

"I saw Dr. Norton back here and thought I would just come say hello. Having a little colleague dinner, eh?"

"That's it," Irene trilled. "She was feeling rather ill today, so I thought it would be nice to have someone else cook for a change."

Lestrade nodded in sympathy. "Molly, I don't s'pose you saw the report if you were out sick today?"

"The report?"

"Yeah, the one about the poison case."

"I don't understand. I already verified that it was poison. Actually, it was the same sort that killed a girl I examined the week before." A couple several seats away was shooting Molly dark looks. She began to twist the napkin in her hand.

"I know," Lestrade sighed. "There's more, though."

"Another body?"

"No. Another victim. He was just poisoned sometime this morning in his flat, but the lab results are very clear."

"But that's good, isn't it? No, sorry. I mean, you can question him if he's still alive, can't you? He must have seen who did it."

Lestrade shrugged. "He's not conscious yet. There must be some sort of connection between the victims, but I can't see it yet. That sort of a leap was meant for a... better man." His eyes were cast down onto the floor, boring imaginary holes into the carpet. Both women took the opportunity to exchange guilty looks, knowing that they possessed the words that could set everyone at ease. Though Molly had bore that burden for months on her own, she felt relieved to have someone to share it with. Someone else to watch teetering over her words, remembering at the last moment that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

"Anyway," Greg continued with a cough. "The victim's been arrested once before, so his involvement with this is much messier than I'd like. We'll have to wait and see." Nodding, he stepped away from the table. "G'night, ladies."

He'd almost made it out of earshot before Irene seemed to realize something. "Greg?" she called.

"Yes, Doctor?"

"What was the victim arrested for?"

"Oh. Er, possession of illegal arms. There was no evidence of them after his arrest, though. He was released."

Irene nodded. "Thank you, Greg."

For several moments after his departure, Irene's brow furrowed in thought and she seemed to be staring at nothing in particular. Molly was unwilling to intrude upon her train of thought, but she felt her conscious probing her on. "Irene?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for going along with what I said before. You could have suggested a lot to him about us."

"It must have worked," Irene said, relaxing into her seat once more. "He slipped me his number, after all."


	9. Chapter 9

In a distant corner of the city, smoke was issuing from an over-heated kitchen. It made twisting paths through the air of the corridor, bringing with it the pungent scents of seafood and numerous spices. Tilting her head up to catch this aroma in her perfectly shaped nose, the woman standing in the corridor smiled to herself. One of the cooks had slightly burnt some morsel of meat, if the smoke was any indication. Probably one of the charity cases. She would enjoy reprimanding him or her for that small mistake later. Later, when she had relieved her mind of this burden.

At the sight of her entrance, the cluster of exhausted cooks immediately tensed up and began to work more furiously. She nodded her blond head to them, walking through the path they had made for her. In this house, she was as a god and parted the waves of servants.

Beyond that oven of a room was another, darker place. She breezed her way in, closing the door behind her. The dull light above her illuminated a ceiling-high set of shelves, upon which were situated countless bottles of alcohol. There was one; one she had specifically requested to be served at the party that night... Ah.

Gripping the bottle in her hand, she removed the syringe she had slipped into her jacket before leaving her own rooms and placed its sharp tip at the bottle's seal. This time it would be different. She squeezed the plunger. This time, it wasn't nearly as potent as the other doses. At most, it would make for a decent amount of damage to the organs. She released the pressure. Just enough time for questioning.

Beside the packet of cigarettes in her jacket pocket, her shaking fingers closed around her favorite lighter. The weight of it was comforting in her hands; an anchor, if you will. She held it to the wax seal, watching with fascination as the material melted and then re-bonded over the pinprick hole.

On the return trip through the kitchen, she was able to focus on the stench of fear amongst that of the food being prepared. This was her domain, after all. Fear was what she thrived on.

In her pocket, the glass of the syringe and the metal of the lighter jingled quietly.

 

In a very different sort of building, far removed from the luxuries of hired help and bottomless wine vaults, preparations were also under way. With his typical reluctance, Sebastian had sent Irene several texts throughout the course of the morning. In these, he reminded her of the specifications of their plans, and she relayed these to Molly in bored sighs. The younger woman was evidently even more nervous than usual, as she had been knocking into things for hours. Eventually, after stepping on Toby, she gave up the pacing.

She wished fervently that she could at least have her work to focus on. Hands itching for a pen or scalpel and mind longing to sort out a puzzle, she hated the flat for its sudden plainness. Well, that wasn't entirely true. In the sporadic moments that Irene chose to grace the kitchen or sitting room with her presence, she filled it as though she were a burgeoning cloud of perfume. Against her radiant skin and ardent eyes, the floral patterns of her furniture and the beige of her walls seemed ghastly pale.

Maybe Irene was her work, now.

Just for now, they said.

Suddenly, the cup in her hands tilted, sending hot liquid splashing over the rim. She tried to quickly absorb the mess with a napkin, though her blunder didn't go as unnoticed as she had hoped.

"Molly," Irene sighed from the sitting room. "You've had enough tea."

"It's the herbal sort," Molly muttered, slapping the soggy napkin into the trash.

"Come here."

Obediently, she abandoned her attempts at cleaning and found Irene standing by the balcony door again, gazing through it. She was wearing that damned peignoir again. Molly vaguely wondered what the use of such a garment was as a light breeze passed through the cracked door and rustled the thin fabric. Irene was standing so close to the window. Anyone could happen to look up and catch a glimpse of the dominatrix, hardly concealed. Christ.

And yet, Molly was following the changes of the air. She imagined she could see those mild currents wrap around Irene's barely parted thighs, or fill the shallow dip of her lower back. A shiver coursed under her loose sweater.

"You're beautiful..."

Turning, Irene graced Molly with a thin smile. "I've been told that many times, Molly. There's no need to reassure me."

"I know, but I haven't told you yet."

Irene chose not to respond to that, lowering her eyes for a moment. "You don't think you're worthy of anything beautiful."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean--"

"You must remember that brainy has always been sexy to me."

Stunned at the bluntness of Irene's compliment, Molly experienced a moment of conceit and claimed that air-kissed body as her own. Panting slightly into each other’s mouths, they turned so that Irene's back pressed against the window.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Irene whispered.

"I... I've never been called... _sexy_ before." Her breath came heavily, and she suddenly knew that she had missed that tightness low in her stomach; her blood rushing to all the right places.

"I can call you that as often as you like, but you'll have to earn it."

The two women stood entwined at the window for some time before Irene led them to the sofa, her arm still around Molly's waist. "There's something you may be interested in knowing," she said after a lengthy silence.

"I'm not interested if it's another one of your ill-timed apologies."

"No." Irene let out a short laugh. "I want to tell you about the only other woman who was ever this close to me."

Molly shrank back into the cushions a bit, her body tensing. "Oh."

"I'm not telling you this to upset you, Molly. I'm... What is it?"

"Opening up."

"Of course. Well, I thought you ought to know before you went to that party of Mr. Stone's tonight, as you'll be meeting her." She held up her free hand at Molly's expression. "She's his sister, and her name is Clarisse Stone."

"But that's—that’s who you and... Moran were talking about yesterday."

"Yes."

"How did you even know her? She isn't into...that, is she?"

Irene only squeezed Molly's hand. "We were both very wealthy. The social sphere in which I was well known bled into that of my clients, and subsequently into hers. She's never been known for her sweet temperament, and when it was over... Well, she began to act violently against my friends and the more loyal clients."

"Violent." Molly blinked, wondering what constituted as violence to a woman who dealt with snipers on a regular basis and made her living by beating people.

"There's no need to go into details. At first, Kate even had to use an alias when she wasn't in our house to protect herself from Clarisse." She flexed her grip around Molly's hand again. "I've no time for the jealous ones."

"Will I have to be careful with her tonight, then?"

"Oh, no. That's the beauty of this. You're already covered by my alias. She won't know that you have any connection to me whatsoever. I intend to keep you very safe, and very close."

"I suppose we'll see about that,” Molly laughed nervously. "And, well. I know it’s not a priority of yours to allow anyone to see through that mask you’ve got, but thank you for trusting me with your past, Irene.”

Irene fell silent again, struggling to find words. “That’s the second time you’ve done that.”

“Done what?”

She shook her head slowly, attempting to focus on the opposite wall but eventually turning back. “This is what you meant, isn’t it? In the morgue. You said I had to tell you things that mattered.”

Molly nodded slowly. “And you... listened to me?”

“I listen to everyone, Molly. Whether I choose to store that information and use it depends upon how interesting the person is.”

“And I’m... interesting?”

“You’re an unsolved case.”

At that, Molly fell back against the cushions, her shoulders shaking with laughter. “Right. I'm only hoping I don't have to see or speak to Clarisse tonight. I'm not sure I could focus on sneaking Moran in and meeting your old girlfriend at once. Hang on,” she exclaimed, jumping back. “You've got that look."

"I was thinking. You're going to be me tonight."

"More or less," Molly agreed. "Although, you're not really Eva Norton."

"Nevertheless..." Irene's eyes slowly trailed down Molly's body and back up again, a bright shimmer in her light irises. "I believe I see an entertaining prospect for today."

Frowning, Molly met the fierce gaze with difficulty. "What? Oh—Irene, no!"

 

Some hours later, Molly found herself standing before her own bathroom mirror, but looking back was someone she hardly recognized. Her brown eyes held the same warmth and compassion as ever, though they peered out through an expertly-placed halo of smoky makeup. Her skin, which was sore from exfoliation, had been left as it was for the most part, though there was a subtle blush on her cheeks. Molly suspected that Irene had only bothered with that in order for her frequent genuine blushes to concealed. She had even refused to do anything more with her hair than to curl it into loose waves and then mess it up all over again. _Sex hair_ , Molly told herself. _That's what they call it, right?_

The cozy sweater still remained, but that would, no doubt, also be exchanged for something better suited to the dominatrix's tastes. She squared her shoulders at her reflection, attempting to match her presence with the rather intimidating face. She'd done it before, of course. There were occasions on which she knew it was all right to masquerade in this way; being someone else. She would have done nearly anything for Irene that night.

As if she'd been listening to Molly's internal dialogue, a sharp tap of Irene's nails sounded against the bathroom door. Reluctantly, Molly tore her eyes from the spectacle that was her reflection.

"Yes?"

"Decent enough?"

"Enough," Molly sighed.

Irene's voice became impatient; excitement coloring her orders. "Come out, then. We're almost finished with you."

In the adjoining bedroom, Molly found Irene standing defiantly, challenging Molly to disobey her. In her arms rested a disturbingly small bundle of clothes, neatly folded and topped with a mass of glossy black plastic.

“Where did you get those?” Molly squeaked, jabbing out her index finger.

“I’m sorry?”

“Those shoes!” She indicated the intimidating pair of stilettos.

“Oh, these. I found them tossed in the back of your closet the first morning I was here. Hmm. I was rather surprised that you don’t wear them. Being a bit taller would suit you.”

Molly’s retort was halted by a roll of Irene’s eyes. “Relax, dear.” She sauntered forward until the clothes she held were all that separated her face from Molly’s. She had smiled out confusion earlier, but now her face lit up with amusement. “I rather like having you on my eye level. Now, slip into these, won’t you?”

Back in the bathroom, Molly tugged off the sweater and jeans and tossed them into the corner. Despite her attempts to dislike the dress Irene had presented her with, she couldn't help but swoon over the silkiness of its light weight in her hands. She didn't know where the hell Irene had gotten it from, but it was certainly tighter than she was used to. Silently, she reminded herself that she'd paraded around 221B Baker Street in something of a similar fit.

This one, however, seemed to be made for her. Reaching her knees, it hugged her with a dark purple fabric that seemed to turn black at the folds. At the back, it was cut down almost to her tailbone and detailed with a silvery lace.

Still, there was one detail she missed. Opening a drawer, she removed it and carefully placed it around her neck.

"Well?" Irene called from the bedroom.

Hesitantly, Molly made her way to Irene. She crossed her arms over her torso in a display of nerves, though her face was set with determination. Standing before Irene, who was still undressed and barefoot, she felt uncharacteristically important. She hadn't worn the shoes since med school, when she'd thrown them into a box without further thought. Her hand reached up to touch the necklace at her throat. "Is this okay?"

Irene lowered her eyes, drinking in every part of Molly's appearance. She placed her own hand over Molly's, curling her fingers in so that they both clasped the necklace. "Are you saying something with this?"

 _I don't know_ , her eyes seemed to say. _Are you?_

A brief sensation of vertigo filled Irene, swooping up from her stomach and sending prickles of heat over her throat and face. Perplexed as she was, she found her hand lifting from her side and her long fingers tangling themselves in Molly's hair. Under her touch, Molly froze with a sharp intake of breath. The hand almost withdrew at the protest, but Irene reasoned with herself. After all, her experience had taught her that gasping wasn't necessarily a form of rejection.

One red nail hooked onto a strand of hair, winding it around the adjoining finger before Irene pushed the entire section of locks over Molly's shoulder. Silently, she admitted that she would very much enjoy messing it up even more.

A short cough quickly shattered the fantasy.

"Irene, please."

Irene took note of the sudden tremor in her friend's voice and was only vaguely surprised to hear her own becoming lower. "Now, whatever could you mean by that?"

Her hands resumed their explorations, tracing Molly's lace-covered shoulders and barely grazing the exposed collar. Even though her thought process was slowed by the fog that seemed to permeate the room, she was sharply aware of the words that Sherlock had callously said to her. Pulse elevated. Pupils dilated. She was, without doubt, displaying those very symptoms right now.

 _The only question_ , she mused, _is whether Molly is showing them too._

As the other woman hadn’t continued to object, renewed hope fueled Irene’s experiment. Her eyes swept up to meet Molly’s and widened in pleasure. The already dark irises were engulfed in black, making a stark contrast with the pink flush.

"We don't have much time before I have to leave," Molly tried.

“No…”

“But, I'll be late."

“Oh, Ms. Hooper,” Irene sighed in amusement, lightly rising on her feet to be closer to Molly’s ear. “For once in your life, take what you want.”

The pause only lasted for a moment or so, and then something shifted. Irene’s arm was grasped by a usually delicate hand and her body was pulled forward. Molly’s head lowered without further hesitation, inviting Irene’s vertigo to intensify.

As a barely familiar taste flooded Irene’s mouth, she felt the pulsating euphoria of victory. And yet, neither woman had been beaten, either. The most fascinating thing about kissing Molly Hooper was the unexpected equality that she had never before experienced.

Fearing the possibility of submission, Irene returned the pressure with a ferocity that was soon matched. Molly’s jaw was enveloped by purposeful hands that found their way back into her long hair, pulling and twisting. She was obliged to pause for breath before diving down again to have Irene’s lips take her bottom one. Irene gradually applied more force until she found the opportunity to carefully allow her teeth to emerge and firmly press down. She was pleased to discover that she could make this woman gasp twice in a matter of minutes, using physical skills alone.

“Have I hurt you?” she managed to ask against Molly’s mouth.

“A little,” Molly admitted. “I-I don’t think I mind.”

Her hands began to roam more confidently over Irene’s body, and Irene was only vaguely surprised that the girl’s curiosity was drawing forth primal instincts in herself that she hadn’t been able to surrender to in what seemed like years. Her knee sought out the narrow gap between Molly’s thighs and thrust forward.

“Damn dress,” she muttered on feeling the fabric’s resistance.

Molly moved her shoulders back a bit to look at Irene, the pinpricks of light in her eyes burning brilliantly. “I could… I could move it. You know; take it off.”

“What happened to being late?” Irene chuckled.

"I'll drive fast."

Irene removed Molly’s hands from her waist. “You're not going to be driving the cab, pet. Besides, these aren't people to toy with.” She could hardly believe that such a dull sentence had actually come out of her mouth.

“I know,” Molly whispered. “But, I want to prove it to you.”

“Prove what?”

An almost steady hand twined itself around the back of Irene’s neck, pulling her in again.

“That I do trust you.”

For all of both the women's varying fantasies, their clothes couldn't be removed as quickly as they would have liked. Panting, Irene struggled to pull free of her peignoir. Molly's hands took over, guiding the fabric over hot limbs and letting it fall to the floor in a pool around Irene's feet. Stepping out, Irene pushed Molly into a sitting position on the edge of her bed.

"No one's ever bothered," she breathed, wrapping her bare legs around Molly's hips and returning to the fire of their kiss.

In a leap of faith, Molly willed her hands to obey her and began to roam over the chest pressed against her, discovering how supple and vulnerable Irene's body could be.

After several minutes of this, Irene pulled back to tug the dress over Molly's head. "I don't like it as much as I thought I did," she said, trailing her lips over Molly's exposed ribcage. Soon, their remaining garments were tossed onto the floor as well.

"Should I take those off?" Molly gestured towards her stockings.

"No," Irene murmured, her mouth pressing small indents in Molly's skin. "God, no."

Pressed back against the duvet under Irene, Molly felt a deep thrill forming in her gut and winding its way up through her veins. None of her previous lovers had done anything like this—the men she’d had the misfortune to be with had been solely focused on themselves in physical matters. All at once, she understood the allure that Irene had inspired in her clients. The relentless attention on her, on every limb of her body, was exhilarating.

"Would you like to take charge?" Irene sighed into her ear, the sound almost a growl in her lust.

"I d-don't think I know how to take control."

"Hush, girl. I'll teach you."

Neither of them interrupted the blissful trance with coherent sentences after that. Irene waited for Molly to kick off the shoes that still remained before interlocking their legs, and Molly cried out a long-suppressed plea.

Irene slid back and pushed apart the thighs below her. She sank down between them, and Molly felt long fingers tracing up the inside of one of her legs. The touch felt foreign and strangely smooth with the barrier of her stockings between their skin.

Molly threw her head back into the pillow, sighing softly to the ceiling. Her breathing became shallow once she felt Irene's warm hands on her and in her, a trickle of nervousness entering her system again.

“Shhh… I’ll be gentle, just this once.”

Irene allowed those primal instincts full command, and Molly was helpless against her euphoria. A flicker of a wet tongue there, and— _Oh._ Irene evidently knew what she was doing, as her mouth worked rhythmically and firmly against Molly. Occasionally, her hands would stray and work their way over Molly’s heaving abdomen, grazing the undersides of her breasts or making more determined strokes. Each time this happened, Molly would furiously bite her lip, urging Irene to continue.

Even as Irene's expertise emerged, she knew they really didn't have long. She would have loved to kneel there for much longer, her spine arced downwards and her tongue repeatedly bringing Molly to the edge of orgasm before pausing and repeating. She forced herself to tolerate the simplicity of this particular experience, moving her mouth faster. Molly’s moans reached the height of their volume, and she came with a shuddering gasp.

The room’s silence suddenly seemed like a tangible presence as both women lay entangled on the bed, panting softly. On any other circumstance, Irene would have considered it irritating to be only on the giving end. However, as she held her new lover, the brief moment of peace was anything but uncomfortable.

Molly tucked Irene’s head under her chin, moving shaking hands over her dark hair. “That was… different.”

“I would have hoped so,” Irene laughed. “It was quite apparent from your attitude all along that you'd never had a decent lover before."


	10. Chapter 10

Throughout her adult life, Irene had grown used to women leaving her bed. She'd watched them as they pulled items of clothing back on, and she watched as they turned their back to descend the staircase and exit the front door. It was as routine as anything to her, but it didn't matter. None of them mattered.

Sitting on the bed with her legs tucked under her and a sheet around her shoulders, Irene began to wish she wasn't alone in the flat. She'd seen Molly off several minutes ago, but the silence had managed to intrude upon the space in that short time. The faint mews of Toby may as well have been the negligible ticks of a clock.

Irene tugged the thin sheet from the corners of the bed and rose, slightly dizzy. The sitting room was only marginally more bearable, as the distant traffic outside reached her ears through the window. And this was their spot on the couch, was it not? It was no lavish settee like those of her own home, but did that matter? At the moment, she was even inclined to fall asleep on the spot; a poorly wrapped gift of warm skin and muscle for the woman she hated to think she was waiting for.

A truck rumbled past the building. Irene closed her eyes, hoping sleep would rid her of the anxiety. She would feel more comfortable if she could return home for a few hours, even. Her own bed, a searing hot bath... No, that wasn't worth the risk she'd be taking in leaving the flat. She would be lying there when Molly returned, no matter how late.

As her limbs began to surrender their tension, the woman's face entered her mind again. It was sweet, really. She'd always been amused by her blushes and stumbling bravery, but it hadn't occurred to her until then that such a bravery was exactly what she needed. Molly was a rock. So different, Irene thought, than Clarisse. That woman was poison.

The sheet nearly tore as Irene sat up, eyes wide. Poison. It took her several seconds to piece together the images swimming in her mind's eye, though when she did a blackness seemed to seep into her vision. Both murders, she knew, were connected to Nathan Stone. Molly herself had said it. And the most recent victim... Hadn't the inspector said he'd been involved with the dealing of weapons—Moran’s area of expertise?

Nathan had done nothing out of the ordinary to deserve such animosity towards his friends, had he? No; now that she thought about it, she knew that the murders began around the time she'd arrived in London. On Sebastian Moran's orders.

Frantically, Irene rushed into the bedroom and pulled her underwear back over her legs. Now that she was burdened with the knowledge, she couldn't let go of it. Moran had said that Clarisse had his murder in mind, and that was precisely it. Molly wasn't in danger because she was Irene's lover, but because, that night, she would be working for Sebastian Moran. Clarisse would do anything to get her hands on another link to him, and Molly was the perfect target.

Irene found the slip of paper she'd tossed aside and quickly dialed the digits scrawled upon it, her nails tapping furiously over the table. Several distant rings trilled into her ear.

"Hello?"

"Greg. It's Dr. Norton. I'm afraid I require quite the favor of you. I think you'll find this very interesting."

 

Just ahead of her, a boy paused in the drive to toe a pebble with the tip of his polished shoe. Molly watched as his parents turned with rough expressions, taking his wrists in their own silver-adorned ones. Even behind this family whose social standing obviously depended upon such gatherings, she felt out of place. As the front door loomed closer and closer, she tried to find strength in the way her sharp heels pushed into the asphalt with each determined step.

There were two doormen standing guard at each side of the wide entrance; one holding a clipboard before him. He waited expectant.

"Eva Norton," Molly enunciated.

He trailed his eyes slowly down the sheet of paper, his face haggard with boredom. "Are you sure?"

The elegant woman behind Moll sighed heavily, shifting her weight from one dainty leg to the other. At this, Molly had to clench her hands, pressing her short nails deep into her palm. Nothing would go wrong. She was identical to every other guest breezing through those massive doors.

The doorman to her right peered over the others shoulder, frowning. "There," he said, landing a fingertip somewhere on the list. "Just below the Duchess' name."

"Right you are," the first doorman sighed. "Enjoy the party, Ms. Norton."

Inside, the tile marble floor could hardly be seen through the crowds of people making their way across it. Couples embraced lightly between graceful spins, making brief holes in what seemed to be an endlessly connected mass of dark suits and gowns. A grand chandelier provided most of the light, though candles still dotted the space with warm their warm halos.

On the far side of the room, there was a grand staircase leading to the second floor. Molly's eye lit upon this, though it was a difficult job reaching her vantage point. Squeezing past dancers, she knew that any movement besides walking straight in her shoes was probably a bad idea. As she stepped onto the first step and tried to casually lean against the carved banister, a waiter passed by with a silver tray of food. Seeing her interest, he paused and lowered the tray. "Would you care for anything, miss?"

Unsure, she reached for a small morsel and thanked the waiter. Before she'd even finished chewing, a man seemed to appear beside her.

"Hello," he whispered close by. "How do you find the bruschetta?"

Sputtering, Molly's face flushed red as the sharp crust scratched its way down her throat. Between suppressed coughs, she managed to raise her eyes and look at the man who'd surprised her. Even standing on the level beneath her, he was tall. A shock curly black hair completed the silhouette. For a moment, she wondered if Sherlock had unexpectedly returned from wherever he'd gotten off to. But no; the face was all wrong. This one was kept perfectly groomed and pampered.

"I'm sorry?"

"Bruschetta," he said, laughing. "It's made of grapefruit and blue cheese. I left my sister in charge of most of the planning, so I've no idea how anything will turn out."

Molly lowered the hors d'oeuvre in her hand, trying not to gape. "You're Mr. Stone, then."

"Nathan, please." He smiled, showing his impeccably white teeth. She didn't respond, but winced as he lightly ran the back of his curled fingers over her arm and moved closer to her ear. "You, however, I do not know. So," he murmured, "what are you doing at my party?"

All of a sudden, Molly's dress felt too tight; her face too perfectly painted. For the first time in her life, a man was showing his interest in her within the first minute of meeting. Anger rose in her like a monster that had been asleep for years. She didn't want the anonymity that came with such a romance, and she certainly didn't want him. The only person, she knew, to have developed a genuine interest in her was Irene. Only ever Irene.

Turning her head to be close to his face, Molly whispered, "I suppose you'll find out." Frozen by the sultry look she shot him, Nathan's hand went limp and allowed Molly to pull free. As she rejoined the sea of people, she felt that, had they witnessed it, both Irene and Sherlock would have been proud of that one.

 

Outside the flat, a dark car pulled up the curb and came to a halt. Irene watched as a silvery head caught the faint light, leaning out the door and being followed by the rest of Greg Lestrade. She waited as he turned about him to survey the street, though she couldn't imagine what it was that he was looking for in such a quiet area. Once he stopped to rest against the car, arms crossed, she hurried out the flat's front door and down the short set of steps.

Seeing her, Greg sent her a cheeky grin. "I was wondering if you were even ho—“ He took in her dark attire and the madness in her eyes.

"Yes, I know," she snapped, brushing past him to slide into the passenger seat.

His hands held up in a defensive gesture, Greg shrugged and resumed his seat behind the wheel. He turned the keys in the ignition, and the engine purred pleasantly around them. Staring blankly for a moment, he turned back to her. "I've got to say, this is strange. I mean, I thought you'd be up for a pint or a film, but not whatever we're doing." He paused. "What are we doing?"

"Just drive," she sighed, directing him to the main road he would start from. As street signs and headlights flashed by, Irene began to feel more and more light-headed. She had never before defied Moran, and the prospect of doing so now was one that was only slightly eased by the D.I. accompanying her and the comforting weight resting in her jacket's front pocket.

If she had spared a thought for it, she would have been impressed by Greg's cooperation. Without question, he had driven to the flat in an inconspicuous car and brought the materials she'd asked for. Perhaps it was a subtlety acquired from assisting Sherlock with his more ridiculous cases, but Irene felt it was a shame that he couldn't befriend her without being lied to.

Eventually, she directed him to a narrow back road that was surrounded by a canopy of trees. If he felt any apprehension about driving down such a dark road, he displayed no sign of it as he firmly gripped the steering wheel.

Through the trees, Irene began to make out faint squares of light, flickering as other shapes passed over them. "This is the house," she said softly. Greg pulled the car into a small opening on the edge of the road, glancing around with a vague excitement on his features.

"Been a while since I've had to do something like this."

"Don't worry," she replied, stepping into the thicket of trees. "This should be good..."

Greg ran after her, stumbling over a cluster of roots in the process. "Oi!" he called. "We're not stealing something, are we?"

Irene stopped, her hand pressed against a tree. "Do you honestly think I would bring a Detective Inspector with me to assist in a burglary?"

Once the two had reached the edge of the manor's property, Irene pulled her mobile from another pocket and whispered so that Greg would, at least, not be able to make out any names.

"Moran."

"Adler," Sebastian hissed into his own phone. "This is not the fucking time to ask me for advice on a dress."

She clenched her teeth. "No, it's not. Are you at the manor yet?"

"Yes, of course. Your friend isn't due to let me in for another half hour, though."

"I know." She shut her eyes. "You're going to be upset with me for this, but—"

"Then shut up. Now."

"No, Moran. If you don't work with me here, I will make all that you put into tonight fall apart. You want to finish Moriarty’s work and still have time to hunt down Sherlock Holmes? This is the easiest way to do so. Otherwise, you can spend another three months of your life hunting him down."

There was a lengthy pause, though Irene knew that he was merely working out what was the least submissive way to word his reply. "Fine," he finally said. "What do you want?"

"I want you to let me go inside the house first. Do not come in until I call you again. If we’re lucky, I won’t need to at all. This will be much more efficient than if you go in straight away with those men of yours and threaten Nathan with death. Please."

It had been a long time since she had had to beg, though Irene felt that this was the appropriate time to do so. The chaotic emotions that still swirled insider her was a great source of confusion, but she would be damned if she didn't do all she could to protect the source of those emotions.

Moran breathed heavily into the phone. "Right. Go, now. Don't let anyone see you."

 

Molly was beginning to feel the effects of a headache. People moved endlessly about her, chatter covered the swelling music, and she cared for none of it. The conversations she became victim to seemed to consist of nothing but discussions of other people at the manor, or of subjects that the speakers apparently found "fascinating."

There had to be a restroom somewhere in that city of a home, or at least a waiter with fresh drinks instead of strange food. Turning to make her way towards the back, Molly knocked into a woman with cascades of blonde hair.

"Hello!" the blond woman gushed, holding out her arms so that the two women flanking her also came to a stop. Her dark eyes pierced into Molly's, though the slightly startling smile distracted from the aggressiveness of this.

"Um. Hello?"

"I saw you talking with my brother a little while ago; do you know him well?"

Molly silently cursed her luck for running into the two people she desperately wanted to remain invisible to that night. Apart from the lightness of the hair and the absence of wrinkles, the woman she took to be Clarisse closely resembled her brother. She was beautiful, Molly noticed with a sinking sensation. Pressing her nails deeply into the palm of her hand, she tried to ward off any images of Clarisse and Irene in bed together, making a stark and beautiful contrast. Now wasn't the time for jealousy.

"Not really," she finally replied. "I met him through work with the, um, bank."

"I see." Clarisse's smile seemed to cut into her face at this point, and Molly was tempted to take a step back. "What's your name, dear?"

"Eva Norton."

Something dark passed over her pale features. Molly sternly reminded herself of what Irene had said; Clarisse knew nothing of their relationship, and there was no reason for her to take more than a passing interest in Molly.

"Would care for a drink, Eva? I'm sure you'd like to get away from this calamity for a few minutes at the very least."

"Oh, no," Molly said, waving a hand. "I'm supposed to meet someone here soon. I wouldn't like to keep him waiting; you know men." She gave a nervous laugh, not at all sure how to speak with another woman about a subject other than death anymore.

Clarisse stared blankly. "Right. I really do insist, though."

"I couldn't—"

"Unless, of course, you'd prefer to give us a performance?"

Molly's imagination spilled over with thoughts of the bedroom in Belgravia; of leather bonds and lingerie. "W-what?"

Clarisse's two companions smirked at each other at Molly's flabbergasted expression. Clarisse ignored this. "My brother tells me you're a rather talented singer in New York. What say you, ladies? Should our siren here give us a small taste of her voice?"

"No!" Molly exclaimed, eyes wide. "I-I'll take that drink now."

"Lovely."

Clarisse led them to the far back of the spacious room, where a sort of hidden alcove rested beside the staircase. Inside it, an antique table was situated below a smaller chandelier. Closing the door behind her, Clarisse ran her hands over the stained wood of the table. "I sometimes receive visitors in here. It makes for a decent view." She gestured to the glass door at the back, which provided a window to the expansive back yard of the manor. A beautiful fountain served as the centerpiece in the lot, though in the night the yard appeared only as a deep blue impressionistic painting.

"It's very nice," Molly murmured. She hoped to God that Moran wouldn't get himself seen through that door. At least, not until she was alone. She hurriedly took the seat facing the door, leaving the other for Clarisse so that her back would be to it. Before she sat, however, she removed a hefty bottle from the top of a nearby shelf and began to pour wine into two glasses.

"I usually have my maid keep this room ready for my visitors," she explained, passing a glass to Molly. "I'm partial to this wine for chatting over."

"Thank you," Molly managed.

"So. You must tell me something, Eva. My brother isn't so forward with everyone. You must have worked with him for such a long time."

"Oh, not really..." Molly absentmindedly rubbed at the glass neck between her fingers. "I've only met him a few times."

"And yet, he speaks so highly of your performances."

"He must have heard that from someone else."

Clarisse clasped her hands together on the table, curling and uncurling them in slow motions. "But you're performing right now, aren't you? I'm not sure about your singing, but your lying could be vastly improved."

"E-excuse me?" Molly's grip tightened, the headache permeating her brain. "What exactly am I lying about?"

"You're not here to listen to my brother's speech and applaud him for his inheritance. You said yourself that you hardly know him. But now... I need you for something." She pressed the wine glass to her tight lips and swallowed quickly. "There is someone to whom I owe a favor."

"You're not going to touch her," Molly hissed. The sound shocked her, though the momentary surprise didn't show in her seething expression.

"You don't know what you're talking about. "I only need him..." She brought the glass to her lips again, and Molly unconsciously mirrored her action.

"Just Moran..."

Before Molly's lips could close around the rim of the glass, a shot exploded through the room. Shards showered the floor.

 

Panting, Irene stood from her hiding spot, lowering the gun in her hands. The warmth of the metal grip transferred to her skin, though it did little to expel the chill that had worked its way through her body over the last several minutes. She hadn't shot the wine glass for fear of hurting Molly, but her true target had proved just as sufficient. As far as she could tell, the only victims were the glass bulbs of the chandelier and the door.

Inside, Molly was the first to come to her senses. She rose silently, staring at Irene. In the darkness, she had blended in with that blue painting--a ghost in the night. Now, she opened her mouth to speak and Molly knew that she was real.

"Greg, we'll need your help now."

Just as a small commotion was beginning to form outside the locked door, Greg stepped out from another hiding spot and opened what was left of the back door. They found Clarisse sitting frozen, her arms covering her face in terror. Aside from a small, jagged piece of glass protruding from her arm, she seemed physically unscathed. Irene nodded to her.

"I strongly suggest you secure her while there's still time," she said, replacing the gun in her jacket.

Greg pressed his hand firmly against Clarisse's shoulder, keeping her pinned to the chair. Pulling a pair of handcuffs from his own jacket, he locked one of her wrists in one and a table leg in the other. Her eyes fluttered.

A crash slammed against the door from the outside; startling them all. Molly recognized Nathan's voice over the din, as arrogant as ever.

"Open up!"

Irene moved forward, her hand barely grasping the door handle.

"My people are telling me that someone's been fucking shot, and you have the nerve to--" The door swung open with a click and Nathan's face turned ashen. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be dead."

"Oh," Irene said in mock surprise. "Your men must have lied to you, then. I escaped them quite easily."

His eyes roamed over her until he caught sight of the scene over her shoulder. "You fucking shot her?" he shrieked, leaping forward to lift his sister’s head in his hands.

Greg placed a strong hand on his shoulder. "No, she wasn't shot. The door was, though. It stunned her. She should be fine after a couple stitches."

"Who the hell are you?" Nathan growled, shoving the hand off.

"D.I. Lestrade. Dr. Norton here seems to think that something very illegal has been going on tonight, and unless she's proven wrong your sister will have more than stitches to be worried about."

"Just... explain..." His chest rose and fell with rapid succession.

All four sets of eyes turned to where Irene was standing, clad in black and surrounded by an aura of euphoria. Clarisse's in particular narrowed, and the chain connecting her to the table went taunt as she lurched forward.

"Now, now," Irene sang. "It's on your account that we're all here in the first place. You intended to poison this woman, did you not?" She waved a hand at Molly, who ducked her head.

"She wouldn't do that."

"Nathan, I think you're in quite a bit of denial when it comes to your little sister. She was introduced to Moriarty's web through you, and anything that's happened to her since then is your fault."

He said nothing, his face going paler with each word.

"Despite that," Irene said more softly. "I don't think you know what it is she's been getting up to. Two of your friends and one employee have been murdered. You know that. Didn't you ever make the connection?"

"There is none!" Clarisse screeched. "You lying--"

"Oh, shut up," Molly said, sitting back down.

Nathan shut his eyes. "What connection?"

"You knew your sister had some sort of grudge against Moran. You must have. All of a sudden, you begin to work for Moran and people around you begin to die. You're the link, but she couldn't ask you.”

He stayed still where he knelt beside his sister, brow furrowed. The room held its breath as he slowly rose. "I could never trust you before, Adler.”

“I think you’ll find,” she said, pointing at the table, “that the wine still contains the poison. We’ll get someone at the lab to confirm it, but there’s little room for doubt…”

After a moment, he nodded. “You’re right. All those violent episodes she used to have… For now, just get her out of my sight.”

Clarisse lashed out as Greg removed the cuff from the table and secured it to her other wrist. With force, he managed to fully restrain her while he called for a police car from Scotland Yard to come for them. The process of calming down Nathan's guests and assuring them that it was only a burst bulb was a tedious one, and left Nathan almost too exhausted to return for his inheritance speech before his father. She felt devious to do so, but Irene cornered him in the commotion while he was still pliable.

"Irene," he sighed. "I don't have time for you."

"I know," she said. "But I think that, after sending your men after me for two hours, you owe me a favor."

"What the hell."

"A little over a month ago, Moran attempted to make an order or weapons. You refused, but he still confided in you about the locations that he wanted his bombs to be sent to. Correct?"

"Yes..."

"Place the order. Do this as your last act in the arms business, and I'll never breathe a word to your family. Otherwise I would, you know. You'll be able to retain the money and title you're inheriting."

He smiled wanly at her, his hands rubbing his temples. "You'd know all about the importance of money and titles, yeah?"

"Yes. There's one more thing, though. I need you to send me the specific names of those locations as soon as possible. Can you do that before you sleep tonight?"

"Probably."

As she looked at the half ruined man before her, she felt a sudden wave of pity and rested her hand on his shoulder. "I don't know about money and titles at the moment, but I know what it's like to be a victim of your sister. You'll be all right. Your kind always is."

 

Several minutes later, once the requested police car had departed from the clearing and through to the back road in an attempt at secrecy, Irene found Molly perched on the edge of the fountain. Through all that had happened since she'd left the flat, Irene had almost forgotten that Molly's protection had been the reason for it all. As she neared the fountain, she noticed that Molly had removed her shoes. A curtain of long hair hid her face as she kept her head turned downwards.

"I hope I didn't spook you," Irene murmured.

Molly's head shot up at this, her eyes momentarily filled with wariness. The sight of Irene so out of breath and full of excitement stirred something in her. "Oh! No... You were..." She shook her head. "You were brilliant. You just pieced that together?"

"I suppose so," Irene answered, sitting beside her so that their legs pressed together. A pleasant warmth trickled between them.

"You really are like him."

"In some ways." Her nails trailed over the thin lace covering Molly's back. "He didn't want you, though."

"No."

After a time of allowing their eyes to wander over the yard and occasionally each other, Irene pressed her lips to Molly's shoulder. "Do you still have that brandy you served me?" Molly nodded. "Good. I don't want that dress to go to waste."

Curling her hands over the fountain's rim with the force of laughter, Molly looked down at the dark fabric shrouding her. "When did you get this?"

"Last night. Remember? I said I had to pick a few things up."

"Oh, dear. What was the other thing?"

"The gun."

Eventually, Greg sought them ought. Irene had left him to his work, as he had had to write his own report of the night and assisted in securing the wine as evidence. He thrust his hands into his front pockets as he walked towards them, the crunch of the grass under his eager footsteps a testimony to his mood.

"I can't thank you enough, Doctor," he exclaimed, grasping Irene's hand and vigorously shaking it. "We've needed a new brilliance. But to think!" He looked between the two women. "Dr. Hooper happened to be here tonight too!"

"Yes," Irene agreed. "We've all been very lucky."

Greg politely offered to drive the two women back to the flat, and, too tired to do anything else, they agreed.

"By the way," he said, stopping near the trees as a thought struck him. "Why did Mr. Stone call you Adler? Wasn't that the name of the woman Sherlock identified at Christmas? The dominatrix?"

“Of, you know,” Molly said, clapping Irene on the back. “ _Dr._ Norton just has that reputation.”

Lestrade squinted his eyes at them in the dark, his mouth slightly open. With an exasperated shake of his head, he turned to trek through the trees again until he reached the car. Behind him, the breath of life still fresh in her lungs, Molly pulled Irene by the hand.


	11. Epilogue

For what seemed like the hundredth time that week, Molly Hooper stood, slightly uneasy, on the ostentatious stoop of forty-four Belgravia. She could almost be amused, just then, at the number of times in recent history Irene had attempted to persuade her to move in, despite the fact that the wardrobe Irene had had flown over from Manhattan would most likely take up any space that would otherwise be allotted to a new resident. And yet, Molly found herself positively glowing to be standing before that door again. She adjusted the small package in her hands, anxious to be admitted into the house.

Footsteps sounded close, and Molly prepared herself for the ritual of Kate answering and calling for Irene. To her surprise, the dominatrix herself met Molly's eager rings. Without an initial greeting, she took her guest by the hand led her to the parlor.

"Is Kate well, then?" Molly inquired, glancing about the room.

Smirking, Irene lounged against her usual end of the settee. "Kate? She's out right now. Seems to have found herself a lovely woman... I believe Anthea is her name. If you like, you may stay for dinner. The two of them are meant to dine with me anyway."

"Sounds perfect." She couldn't suppress her happiness. In fact, the less time she spent in her own flat, the happier she seemed to be. One couldn't be around Irene Adler for long without feeling the effects of adventure.

"Enough about our plans, though." Irene pulled Molly into the space beside her. "I've been longing to find out what my gift is ever since you called about it this morning."

Molly chuckled. "Oh, you know; just some tools from the morgue."

Irene's face froze, neither amused nor surprised anymore. "I know!" Molly quickly said. "No more jokes!"

She thrust the package into Irene's hands and watched as she withdrew a slim, black mobile. Her eyes questioned Molly.

"Before he went off," Molly said gently, "after I'd done the post-Mortem, he spoke to me for a minute. Most of what he said had to do with giving him reports and keeping quiet, but eventually he thanked me. It was the first time he'd done it without being asked to, actually. He told me he was in my debt. I Ignored that and never had reason to ask anything of him in return, but this wasn't such a problem... You earned it. You were able to send Sherlock a map of where his enemy is going to be over the next few months."

Irene tilted her head, turned the shiny device over in her hand.

"I mean, it's small, but—"

She was interrupted by a kiss; light but still holding that fire that she loved about Irene. She would continue as long as Irene allowed, but the lips under hers soon pulled away.

"You used your first favor on me, no matter how small."

"Yeah." Molly blushed. "I... I guess I did."

"It's just as well, you know," Irene said, her eyes alight with scheme. "Since you have a gift from me, too. It's rather delicate, though it's made of metal chains..."

Molly's eyes widened, flickering back and forth between Irene and the top of the staircase leading to the bedroom.

"You're wearing it right now," she sighed, lightly touching her fingertips to the necklace nestled at the base of Molly's throat."

Stunned, Molly wasn't certain if she should laugh or voice  her slight disappointment. In the end, all that surfaced was a jumble of words and more bursts of pink on her cheeks.

"But don't worry..." Irene leaned forward, winding a steady hand around the back of Molly's head and loosening the band of hair there. Her lips met Molly's, frozen in a graze except for the slightest pressure that came with each shallow breath.

"The rest comes after dinner."


End file.
